


The One Where Lixabiz Takes Prompts

by lixabiz



Series: Tumblr Prompts [3]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Accidental Pregnancy, Alternate Universe, Archivist, Best Friends, Drabbles, F/M, Ficlets, Kids, Meeting Online AU, Mickey/Martha - Freeform, Mutual Pining, Neighbours, Nephew and Nieces, Short Fics, Tony Tyler - Freeform, Torchwood AU, Torchwood Agent, Traffic Warden, Tumblr Prompts, au prompts, boss/intern, coffee shop AU, dating website, more tags to come, police officer, pretending to hate each other au, prompt fills
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-05
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2018-03-16 09:58:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 32,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3483995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lixabiz/pseuds/lixabiz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That time I decided to take AU Prompts on Tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The One Where Rose Is Pregnant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #5 - One night stand and falling pregnant AU

_Rose woke up with a dry feeling in her mouth and a vague inkling that something brilliant had happened - but perhaps only in a dream._

_Then she rolled over and knew otherwise._

_"Typical," he whispered, eyes bright in the darkness, still half-drunk, still bloody gorgeous, "I wake up in bed with Rose Tyler and I can’t remember a thing."_

_"Me neither," she replied._

_She couldn’t remember anything after giddily dragging him out of the club and into a taxi. They’d made out in the back of it and she remembered dropping her keys multiple times while trying to let them into her flat because he kept sucking on her neck._

_He inched closer. “You okay?”_

_"Yeah."_

_What were they going to do? Act like this had never happened? Go back to being friends? Maybe it was for the best they couldn’t remember, then. Let all of it fade away into a blur, a moment of madness._

_"S’not fair," he said, staring at her mouth. "We should do it again."_

_"What?"_

_"We already did it once. We should do it again. I want to know."_

_Know what, she wondered, but quick as lightning he closed the gap between them and kissed her, kissed her until she couldn’t think._

 

He picked up on the second ring. “Hullo?”

"I’m late," said Rose.

"What? We haven’t got plans to meet today, have we?" He looked at his watch, puzzled.

"No," she said, tersely, "I’m _late_.”

 

* * *

 

Rose opened her door and said, “Did you get it?”

Feeling as though he were living in a bizarre sort of dream come to life, he lifted the Boots bag and said, “Of course.”

She grabbed it and went into the living room, dumping the contents onto the carpet in a frenzied rush. She glared at him. “You bought crisps!? And what’s all this bloody Lucozade for!?”

He rubbed his neck, sheepish. All at once the jangly nerves he’d shoved away in order to face her came storming back again, permeating every cell of his body. “C’mon, Rose - what’s it look like, a bloke walking into a shop and buying nothing but a pregnancy test?”

The look she gave him was one that screamed _don’t mess_. He picked up the test - neatly encased in a cardboard box - and handed it politely to her.

"Okay," she said, still seething and ripping the cardboard apart with a forcefulness that made him flinch, "I’ll- I’ll go to the loo."

"Right."

He waited by the door, pacing, studying the colour of the paint on her walls, and the dust bunny that was collecting in one corner. The tick-tock of the clock behind him drove him mental. She was taking ages.

"Rose," he called out, careful to keep his voice calm and neutral, "Everything alright?"

"No!"

"What-" His heart began to race. "Is- Are you-"

"No!" She sounded extremely cross. "I don’t know yet! I haven’t finished taking the test!"

He stared at the wood grain of the door, perplexed. “Do you need the box for instructions?”

She made a derisive noise, and threw something at the door. It made a loud clang. He retreated, withdrawing to the corner for safety in case the molecules of the door suddenly became permeable since this was clearly a dream, and not reality.

"I can’t wee with you out there," she shouted, flustered. "Go away!"

"Go _where_?”

"I dunno!"

He racked his brain for something to offer, some way to keep himself from being kicked out. “Well… why don’t you try… thinking about rivers, lakes, waterfalls? You know the sort of thing.”

"That’s not helpful!"

He ran back into the living room and seized the bottle of lucozade. “I know! Drink this! Fill up your bladder!”

The door opened just enough to allow Rose’s arm to shoot out and snatch the bottle from his grip. It shut firmly again in his face.

 

* * *

 

He held his breath (among other things, Rose had taken so long in the loo he was starting to burst) as she emerged, hands shaking. She tossed the test onto the table and clenched her fists.

Positive. It was positive. He felt faint.

"I’m pregnant," she said, voice rising to a terrifyingly high, hysterical pitch, "I’m bloody pregnant!" She punched him in the arm, hard, her chest heaving with rage. "You just couldn’t leave well enough alone! You- you had to seduce me again! _Twice!”_

Except he’d used a condom that second time, the awesome time, the time he remembered, so chances were it’d been round number one that had done the deed. But Rose didn’t seem like she was in the mood for rational deduction so he kept his mouth shut, cringed, and felt the Universe cackling at him.

"I’m pregnant! Oh my god. Oh my GOD. We’re not even together! You’ve made me _pregnant_ and I’m not even your _girlfriend!_ " This last bit was fairly screamed at him, which made him recoil instinctively.

He didn’t do well with jump scares. They made him react before he could think; it was reflex, it was, just reflex, and so he blurted out, “Do you want to be?”

Wrong thing to ask. She threw the nearest thing she could reach at him. It happened to be a lamp - he narrowly dodged as it crashed to the floor.

Okay. That would be a no, then.

 

* * *

 

"You’re keeping the baby?"

She nodded.

Relief surged through him, he hadn’t known he’d been hoping for this, had told himself: _it’s her decision_ for the last two weeks of silence. Now he knew that he wanted this baby, wanted to be a dad, prams and diapers and 2AM feedings and potty training and all. He wanted a family. Uncertainty filled him at the thought. Rose might be keeping the baby, but she might not want to keep _him_.

"Can I… can I help you?"

"You’d better," she said, looking at him intently. Those eyes of her would be the death of him. "Listen. I was… pretty upset last time. I blamed you for this, but… obviously it took the both of us for it to happen. I don’t want you to feel like you have to do things you don’t want to. We can work things out with the baby and still be friends."

"Right. Yeah, course."

 _Friends_ , he thought, feeling a wave of panic hit him, properly, for the first time. _Friends who are having a baby together._

Rose looked like she might cry. He thought he understood the feeling.

He said, with as much confidence as he could muster, “It’ll be alright. You’ll see. We can do this, you and me. We’re in this together.”

 

* * *

 

The first trimester was a roller coaster. Rose had told her mum the truth about a week after she’d declared her intention to keep the baby. Jackie appeared on John’s doorstep the next morning to slap him upside the head, and made him promise to take care of Rose and the baby, or _else_. He wasn’t sure what the ‘else’ entailed, but he wasn’t going to find out.

It was bloody uncomfortable, pregnancy, when one viewed it up close.

The guilt was immense, he’d done this to her, but so was the secret satisfaction of being the one she came to when she wanted to rant and whinge about how much morning sickness sucked and how she was putting on weight and felt bloated already. He set himself as number one on her speed dial and was over everyday to rub her ankles, even though they weren’t sore _yet_ \- but he said he was practicing for later and she seemed to like it.

She was back to being typical Rose, albeit perhaps a touch more prone to violent mood swings than before. Still. She was Rose, who liked his jokes and tendency to ramble and who always made him feel welcome in their circle of friends. Rose, who he had been nursing hopes towards for years, who had always been taken by some other lucky sod before he even realised he’d been too slow to act. That night at the club had been the first time she’d been single in ages. He’d taken advantage of the liquid courage, had used up a lifetime’s worth of luck in one go, to get a single night with Rose.

But the universe liked it’s jokes, and clearly enjoyed screwing with him, and so here they were: pregnant, in limbo, forever tied to one another, though not in the ways he’d imagined or hoped.

 

* * *

 

"When the baby comes," he said, screwing up the courage one afternoon, as he massaged her left foot, "I could… I could move in here. To help you. With feeding it and all. You know, in the middle of the night."

He glanced at her. She was looking at him, pensive. His heart sank, inch by inch, into the pit of his stomach. “Is that not okay?”

She shook her head and pulled her foot free of his grip, away from him. The sofa suddenly seemed awfully long, allowing her to produce a gaping distance between them. 

"I don’t know. It’s still early. I’m not even showing yet."

That’s what he got for being greedy. Rose was allowing him to stay in her life. He shouldn’t have pushed his luck.

Still, he wanted her to know. That he was serious about this, that he was in for the long haul. “I want to be there for the baby. For you.”

"I know."

He didn’t understand the conflicting emotions that passed over her face, like rapid storm clouds.

She sighed at long last, and said, “We’ll see. When the baby comes.”

He squeezed her hand. “I’ll be there, you know.”

She rested her head on his shoulder. “I know.”


	2. The One With Zorro

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #34 - Meeting at a masquerade ball AU, continuation of "The One Where Rose Is Pregnant".

Zorro swirled into view in front of her, the bottom of his cape whacking her in the leg. She blinked up at him from her seated position on the sofa and said, matter-of-fact, “Your mask’s crooked.”

He straightened it hurriedly and thrust the cup he was holding into her hands. She sniffed it and took a cautious sip. Orange juice. She looked up again and he was gone, into the depths of the party, cape swirling.

 

* * *

She wasn’t speaking to him at the moment.

Last week they’d driven out to the IKEA to look for furniture for the baby’s nursery. He asked her if she didn’t want something nicer, perhaps, but she replied firmly that IKEA was what she could afford and so that was that. He hadn’t argued.

On the way home, she found something in his jacket pocket whilst rummaging for his keys. A little blue box, made of velvet, with the unmistakable logo pressed onto the cover. It had a ring inside it, of course.

Her first - sickening - thought was, _when could he have time to see another woman? He’s always with me._

Her second thought, just as terrifying, though perhaps less of a punch to the solar plexus, was, _he’s going to ask me to marry him because of the baby._

The row that followed had been blistering, ending with Rose in angry tears and John frustrated and upset. She told him to go away, and so he had, though clearly he wanted to stay and argue his case some more.

It wasn’t good for the baby, Rose told herself over and over after he’d gone, willing herself to calm down and eat and sleep at her regular hours. That hadn’t been easy. The cardboard boxes containing the baby’s crib, changing station and dresser were piled in the corner, making Rose choke up every time she glanced that way.

Six months in, she had all sorts of sores and aches, and usually he massaged her for hours every night while they watched telly. She had to go without, which made it even harder to get confortable enough to sleep. The baby had just started moving, as well, light fluttery kicks that made her heart flip each time. Once she let him put his hand on her belly and the look on his face was one she’d never forget.

Going to her mum for advice didn’t help, either.

"What’s wrong with that? He ought to want to marry you! He got you in this state after all!"

"Mum! He’s just offering because of the baby!"

"So? Good for him. Don’t look at me like that. I’m not saying you should say yes - that’s up to you, sweetheart, if you don’t want to marry him, then don’t. But it’s a good sign, isn’t it? That he’s serious about being a father? He wants to give the baby a proper family."

Maybe so, but it was a poor excuse for marriage. Jackie pointed out that loads of people got married because of unplanned pregnancy and that didn’t always mean the couple was unhappy in the end. People got married for worse reasons all the time. Rose needed to have some faith.

"I’m not marrying him," Rose said stubbornly, refusing to acknowledge aloud what she suspected her mum already knew, and what she herself was afraid of admitting to.

 

* * *

 

Jack was wearing a pirate costume paired with  the most garish feathered mask ever created. He swaggered about his living room asking people to PAHR-LEH in the most atrocious english accent Rose had ever heard. She was pretty sure he’d never seen Pirates of the Carribean and had just wanted to be a sexy pirate for the evening. Themed parties were his favourite, and though she really hadn’t felt like coming tonight, she also hadn’t felt like sitting at home, feeling dreadful and bloated and pregnant and alone.

Her costume was just a big black shift dress, a  maternity gown she’d purchased from the charity shop, and a handmade mask Martha had made for her, decorated with tiny paper roses.

"Zorro told me to bring you this," said Doctor Jones, swishing onto the scene, holding a tray aloft. "Folic acid tablets and a glass of milk."

Rose accepted both, swallowing the tablets and chasing them down with a big gulp.

"Still fighting?"

Did everyone know?

Martha sat down next to her and nudged her in the shoulder, sympathy on her face. Rose had been jealous of her when they’d first met. She was a resident at the hospital where he worked, bright and beautiful and put-together, and it had been obvious from the get-go that Martha admired him. Rose had thought surely they would begin dating, surely he would fancy someone like Martha, but it had never happened. And then she’d got pregnant and somehow Martha had become a good friend, someone knowledgeable who she could go to for medical advice as well as friendly support and encouragement.

Tonight she seemed to be acting as a go-between, whether on her own volition or under his direction, Rose didn’t know.

"Whatever he did, he’s sorry."

Rose didn’t know how to explain that it wasn’t a matter of apology or wrongdoing, but of a difference of opinion. A monumental one, in fact. He wanted to marry her because he felt it was his duty. Rose did not want to be a burden, something to shackle him to a life he didn’t really want.

"I know," she said, for lack of anything else to say.

Martha smiled, her bedazzled cat-eye mask catching the dim light light. She was wearing a diaphanous blue ball gown, and had a sparkly star tipped magic wand in the other. Cinderella’s Godmother? Or Glinda the Good Witch?

"How are you feeling?"

"Good," Rose lied. She was tired and sore.

"Hmm," said Martha, tapping her wand in her palm. She was looking at the dark circles under Rose’s eyes. "Do you want to go lie down in the bedroom for a bit?"

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the hem of a cape disappear around a doorframe. Zorro was avoiding her. Sudden melancholy overwhelmed her, so Rose nodded and allowed Martha to lead her away.

 

* * *

 

Rose was more tired than she’d realised. Jack’s bed smelled weird, but Martha assured her it was clean. She fell asleep promptly, waking up with a jolt when the doorknob was jiggled and turned. Someone or something banged against the door, made an ‘oof!’, and an angry voice, familiar, shouted ‘Oi! Get out! She’s resting in there!” followed by another, soft thump. There was silence after that.

 

* * *

 

"Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty," said a very tipsy sing-song voice, "Or I’m going to kiiiiisssss youuuuuu!"

She opened her eyes, disoriented. Captain Jack, still in his pirate garb but shirtless now, leered down at her.

"Ugh," she said.

"Nice," he snorted.

"Your guard’s waiting, he refused to come in and wake you himself."

"Oh," she said, swallowing thickly, and staring at the ceiling.

Jack cocked his head. “I’ll tell him to give you a few minutes, shall I?”

 

* * *

 

A few minutes turned into a few hours, and by then even the most hardy of Jack’s guests were partied out and/or passed out on various surfaces in the house.

Martha stood on the stairwell landing and shook her head at the black-clad form sitting with his back to the door of Jack’s bedroom. His cape was waddled up under him and his mask on the floor, legs bent uncomfortably in the narrow hallway, head in his arms. Sad Zorro seemed determined not to move, and the equally sad mother-to-be inside the room he was guarding seemed just as determined to stay put.

Time for this Fairy Godmother - _not_ the Tooth Fairy, thankyouverymuch - to wave her wand and work some magic. She pulled out her mobile and sent out a carefully worded text.

Several seconds later, the door was yanked open, and poor Zorro, caught unaware, fell backwards into the room with a yelp.

Rose cried, “What’s the matter?”

He looked up, slightly dazed from hitting his head on the floor. “I fell.”

"Are you hurt?"

"No, no, don’t bend, I’ll-" he groaned and climbed to his feet, rubbing the side of his head. He spread his arms- "Here, look, I’m fine."

Rose gave her mobile a dirty look.

He peered at her, carefully asked, “Are you alright?”

"Yeah," she said.

Even more carefully, “Are you still angry?”

She considered it for a moment. 

"“No. I’m not," she said finally, chewing the inside of her lip and playing with the frayed edge of one sleeve. He brightened.

 

* * *

 

He took her home, saw the circled date on the calendar stuck to the fridge with a magnet, and asked quietly if it was okay if he drove her to the Doctor’s appointment in the morning. “I can wait outside, if you want.”

"That would be good," Rose said, "And you don’t have to wait outside."

She’d been miserable the entire time he’d been missing from her life and knew she had to stop pretending it was anyone’s fault but her own. Her mum was right. He was just being a good person, and she was punishing him for it. Just because she felt…. a certain way, in regards to their relationship, that didn’t mean she got to be angry at him for not feeling the same. That was unfair. 

"I’m sorry. I overreacted. I saw the ring and…" she trailed off, unsure of how to make amends. 

"No, I’m sorry," he said quickly, "It’s my fault. You’ve got every right to be upset. I just keep mucking things up, don’t I?" He sighed, and raked his hand through his hair. The mask from earlier was gone, his cape wrinkled. He looked exhausted, days of concern and weariness lending lines to his face. 

Guilt surged through Rose. She opened her mouth to speak but he wasn’t finished. 

"It’s not true, though. What you said."

"What?" 

"It’s not because of-" his hands clenched themselves, and he nodded at her belly- "Because of the baby. I’ve always… well. I’ve always thought… someday. With you."

Her voice was strangled, barely above a whisper. “What?”

"When the time was right. When you weren’t dating someone else." He paused and swallowed, gathering courage. The baby kicked as if in approval, cheering her father on with prenatal gymnastics. "S’not how I imagined it. Us. And I don’t know how to fix it."

"What do you mean? Fix it? Fix what?"

"You’ll never believe me, now, will you?" He looked despondent. The sadness on his face struck a visceral, painful pang that reverberated through her. His voice was dull. "You’re always going to think it’s because of the baby. It doesn’t matter what I do, or say, does it?"

A sort of odd lightness passed through Rose, and for a moment she thought, _oh no, I’m going to faint_. But an arm suddenly came around her - two arms, strong ones - and offered support. She looked up at him and was glad he’d lost the mask. His eyes were fixed on hers, kind and warm. She realised something, then… something unbelievable and heart-stopping and mad.

_He’s telling the truth._

"Do you still want to marry me?" 

His eyes grew wide and the hands on her waist flexed, gripped her a little tighter. 

"More than anything in the world."

She said, with a deep breath, “Ask me again.”

 


	3. The One With The Last Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #49 - Boss/Intern AU

_06:37:09_

She dragged her feet, wishing time would slow down to a trickle. Six months, initially dreaded, had gone by in what seemed like a flash. No more getting up early to straighten her hair and carefully select her outfit each morning, no more happy runs to the coffee shop to pick up two orders of the same latte order and rushing to get to work. She always tried to arrive first, but he somehow beat her to it every day. Rose joked that he must have a time machine or Hermione Granger’s timeturner - he always laughed and winked, making her stomach flip with pleasure and doubt.

 

_07:47:23_

"You’re early," he said, glancing at the clock.

"It’s my last day," said Rose, "Wouldn’t want to leave a bad last impression, would I?"

 

* * *

_11:44:03_

He looked at his watch. “Rose, don’t worry about the documents- go for lunch.”

"No, it’s okay- I’ll finish them. I brought lunch, I can eat it here, if you don’t mind."

"Not at all," he said, and they sat together in his office for the whole hour, exchanging quips between bites. She wished she’d thought of doing this before. All those lunch hours, gone to waste.

 

* * *

 

_15:15:07_

Rose shoved the paperweight Mum had given her - a congratulatory present, from when she’d first landed the internship - into her bag. Tomorrow she would go back to school, finish her last semester and graduate in the spring. The desk she sat at now had to be cleared out. It had only taken a few minutes to empty the drawer - there was nothing left now to show she’d been here.

She looked up at the sound of him walking back to his desk, whistling, shooting her a big smile as he passed, arm lifted to check the time.

He was fine, happy, cheerful. Well, why wouldn’t he be?

 

* * *

 

_16:43:28_

"Gonna be hard to get up in the mornings now," he said, ruefully, when she mentioned offhandedly that it would be strange to be able to sleep in tomorrow, and the day after that.

"You’ll manage," she said, thinking of coffee. Maybe he’d fetch it himself, from now on.

He was distracted, eyes focused on the clock behind her. His gaze flicked from it to her face, with the barest hint of impatience. He seemed eager for the day to end. Disappointment weighed heavily in her stomach, but she tried not to let it show on her face. It wasn’t as if she’d been expecting something. With a depressing clarity she realised that her feelings were even more one-sided than she’d thought.

 

* * *

 

_16:51:35_

Rose got to her feet and held out her hand; he stood and took it, smiling.

"Thank you for everything," she said, swallowing back that wretched lump in her throat.

"It was my pleasure."

 

_16:57:49_

The clocked ticked again, he was still looking, still counting seconds.

 

* * *

 

_16:59:17_

_To hell with it_ , Rose thought, and came around the desk. “Is it okay if I hug you goodbye?” If he said no, that was fine, though she was certain he would acquiesce out of sheer politeness.

And of course he did, with only the barest of pauses to indicate any sort of reluctance on his part.

_16:59:23_

He drew her up into his chest, wrapped both his arms around her and gave her one of the best hugs she’d ever had in her entire life. Maybe the best, ever. 

She shivered and wondered how much longer she could cling to him. Several seconds passed and she knew it was time to go. 

_16:59:59_

"It’s officially over now." His voice was low, and held a note of something she didn’t understand - relief? Expectation?

_17:00:03_

"Finally."

She went stiff; the contradiction between his statement and his body language extremely confusing. 

_17:00:10_

Rose tried to pull away. He didn’t let her.He said, “I was thinking, maybe we could get a curry? Maybe catch a film? If you’re not keen, there’s always the pub down the road…?”

_17:00:21_

Her eyes shot up to meet his, wide and startled. “What?”

_17:00:29_

"Wasn’t appropriate before, you were my intern. But now you’re not-mrrf!"

_17:05:41_

He looked down at her, touched his tongue to his lips, and she did the same, because they tingled and she could still taste him there. The suggestion of a smirk teased at the corner of his mouth.

"I take it that’s a yes, then?"

 

* * *


	4. The One With The Handcuffs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #28 - Knocking on the wrong door AU

Mum had always taught her to play nice with the neighbors, because you never knew when you might need to borrow a cup of sugar or request a helping hand moving heavy furniture. Rose decided to heed this very sound advice and take measures to ensure that she made a good first impression on her fellow residents. She was not a great cook, but she had a nice biscuit recipe or two up her sleeve that she had pulled out especially for the occasion.

The very pregnant housewife who had answered the door to 408 said, “Best not be bothering with number 10. Better not to have anything to do with him at all, I daresay.”

"Why not?" Rose asked, turning her head to look at the door to the flat on the other side of hers.

"Odd sort of chap," the husband said, munching on a biscuit. "Doesn’t come home much, but-"

"Anyway," said his wife, "Thanks loads for the treat, Rose-was it? So lovely of you."

Curiosity had always been her weakness, and so she went over to 410, holding her bowl of biscuit tins, and knocked on the door.

There was no answer.

 

* * *

 

The parcels began arriving two weeks after Rose moved in. They were delivered by private courier and each item was mysteriously addressed to simply ‘Resident’, with no other identification of the intended recipient attached. The same delivery agent knocked on her door week after week and despite Rose’s protests to the contrary, he insisted that they belonged to her because she lived here, didn’t she, and he had a job to do and would she just please sign on the dotted line, _thankyouverymuchMissandhaveaniceday._

When Rose finally managed to get a hold of the Super and explain the situation, he laughed and said, “Why didn’t you say so sooner?”

 

* * *

 

Rose rapped her knuckles, firmly, on the door since there was no bell or knocker. She waited a moment, then repeated the action. There was no response. She did it again. Still no response.

"You’re sure someone lives here?"

"Yes, of course," said Mr. Butterwick, irritated at being dragged out of his cushy office chair on a quiet Sunday afternoon. "Used to be in yours, but he kept coming and going at all hours of the day and disrupting the other tenants, so we asked him to move into the next flat over. I’ll wager he just hasn’t got around to updating his address with the courier company, we’ll get it sorted, easy."

He banged on the door with his much bigger fist. They waited a few seconds, and then he shrugged. “Must be out. I’ll contact him back in my office, can’t wait around here all day.”

 

* * *

 

The packages kept coming and the Super was ignoring her calls.

Exasperated beyond endurance, Rose opened one of the boxes. Laundry powder. In bulk. Mystified, she opened another. Loo roll, vast quantities of it.

"What the hell?" she asked, staring at the wall that separated her flat from 410.

The third package contained handcuffs.

"Right. A pervert." Rose shoved the box away, wishing she could ring her Mum to ask for advice, but knew if she did, she’d just get a lecture on how she oughtn’t have moved out in the first place. "Great."

 

* * *

 

Heavy, angry jostling from the entrance way woke Rose from a peaceful slumber. She rolled over in bed, startled, and listened as the unmistakeable sound of the lock on her front door being jimmied floated through the flat, loud and intrusive.

Rose held her breath, heart racing. The thudding on the door continued, irratic and impatient. Whoever was on the other side of her door was desperate to get in.

Fighting the urge to cover her head with the sheets like a six year old, Rose got out of bed and grabbed the baseball bat that lay inside her closet. It had once belonged to an ex-boyfriend and her mum had insisted she take it along with her to her new digs. _Thanks, Mum_ , she thought, _now let’s hope my aim is good._

When she reached the hallway, the banging had stopped and there was silence on the other side. Cautiously, bat at the ready, Rose unlocked the door and shoved it open, hard, maybe she’d catch whoever it was unaware and crack their bloody head open-

No one was there.

With a shaky breath, she closed the door, locked it, and ran back to bed.

 

* * *

 

Rose reported the attempted break in to the Super, who regarded her with suspicion - her dislike of the lazy tosser increased ten-fold - but was reassured that he would check the CCTV and find the perpetrator. She doubted this, but nonetheless was relieved when it didn’t happen again - at least not over the course of the week. Still, the bat was kept at the ready, and she had a friend come over and install a deadbolt on the door.

Five more packages came that weekend, though, and enough was enough.

She stacked them against the wall and stared at them.

After much deliberation she thought it best to just be straightforward, located a marker and a piece of scrap paper, and set to work.

 

* * *

 

There was a body outside her door the following Tuesday evening.

It was propped up against the wall, a long, lanky body, covered in wrinkled clothes and dirty converse trainers.

It was not moving.

Rose had just got off her shift at Henrik’s. She was tired, she was hungry, and she was scared stiff. With a shaky hand she retrieved her mobile from her bag, readied it to dial for the police, and approached, heart in her throat.

When she was about a foot away from it - the body - _him_ \- an arm suddenly shot out and clamped around her ankle.

Rose screamed.

She kicked, as hard as she could, heart racing, and the hand let go of her. The previously inert body to came to life and sprang to it’s feet, moving surprisingly fast. The same hand that had grabbed her leg closed over the bottom half of her face, covering her mouth.

"You’re going to wake the entire bloody floor!"

Rose froze.

The voice was low and spoke in a whispered rasp, and it had a distinct Scottish brogue to it. “I got your note. You said seven. It’s almost quarter to midnight now.”

The note of aspersion carried in the voice strangled the cry in her throat, and Rose was so confused she forgot to struggle. Her attacker pulled his hand away, and held up something in his big, calloused hand. In the darkness, it took a moment for Rose to recognize the familiar piece of paper. It was a note that read, in her own handwriting:

_I HAVE YOUR PACKAGES. 7 PM. BRING THE TIN -409._

_Oh, shite_ -

Rose felt the colour drain from her face. This man - this man was her mysterious neighbour, the odd number 10 whom none of the other residents seemed to know anything about, who she’d been warned away from, the very same pervert who _ordered handcuffs and had them delivered to him._

He backed away and said coolly, fluttering the note, “Is this a threat?”

Her stomach sank, eyes growing wide as the implications finally occurred to her. “No! I just- I wanted to give you back your stuff!”

"My stuff?" he repeated, taking a step closer, back towards her.

Rose gasped out, “Your-your packages! They’re being delivered to the wrong flat!”

He was very tall. He towered over her, his face shrouded in the dark corridor.

"Don’t come any closer," she warned, fumbling for the zip on her bag, hands trembling as she tried to reach the can of pepper spray she kept there. "I-I’m serious. I’ll call the police, if you do-"

But he was faster and had his accoutrements drawn before she could blink. A leather wallet emerged from his jacket pocket, containing a badge that proclaimed him to be- DI John Smith.

_DI John Smith. Detective Inspector._

"Oh," she said. " _Oh._ ”

"Yeah." He shoved his badge back into his trouser pockets, and added, a touch sarcastically, "You’ve already called out the police, I’m afraid."

"What the hell?"

A copper. A bleedin’ copper, which explained the handcuffs, yeah, but it didn’t explain why he’d been lying in wait by her door, playing dead, scaring the _crap_ out of her-

"Are you going to let me in?" he demanded, before she could lay into him, outraged. "We can’t stand out here all night, Rose Tyler."

The fact that he knew her name, her _full_ name, startled her so much she found herself complying. The authoritative tone in his voice made her want to obey and rebel at the same time, but it was probably unwise. She did have pepper spray in her bag, and a bat inside the flat, but it was probably unneeded. That badge had looked very real and her instincts told her that he was who he said he was. She wasn’t in danger.

A sense of surrealism pervaded the situation, and Rose found herself having to explain that he’d forgotten to update his address, that the couriers kept insisting on delivering all his packages - she pointed wildly at them, the entire lot, perched in piles in the corner - and he’d been nearly impossible to get a hold of. He stood looking at the packages as Rose went into the kitchen, feeling faint. She busied herself with warming up leftover stew on the stove top, aware of him watching her every step.

"Why have you got a bat?"

"Because someone tried to break into my flat last week!"

Oddly enough, he met this exclamation with a sheepish grimace. “Ah. Well. Actually, I think that might have been me… er… I used to live in this unit. Sometimes I forget I’ve moved. Sorry. Won’t happen again.”

"You forgot," she echoed.

He looked away, and she realised that he was actually embarrassed.

"I was tired."

He certainly looked it, now she she could see him clearly. With a proper haircut and a shave, he’d be decent-looking, maybe even handsome. He had nice brown eyes, kind eyes, but they were so red from lack of sleep it was hard to tell.

"Sorry about the mix-up," he said, shoving a hand into his tangled mass of brown hair. "It’s a bit late to shift them all now, but I’ll come around… when you’re free, of course… and get them out of your way. Sorry for scaring you."

He turned away, to leave.

There was no reason, absolutely no reason at all, for what she did next. Too much adrenaline, perhaps. Too much relief, that he wasn’t a serial killer or a zombie.

"You hungry?" she blurted out, stopping him mid-step.

He turned around, a look of surprise on his face. Something flickered in his gaze as he regarded the table set for one. He was definitely hungry.

She nodded at the pot on the stove. “Got enough for a second plate, if you want.”

It was only neighbourly, she told herself.

 

* * *

 

He joined her for dinner at least once a week after that. The first time, she heard his footsteps in the hallway, heavy and slow, and opened her door to hand him several packages that had come in the morning. He’d blinked from the sudden light coming from her flat, his face lined with exhaustion and smelling so strongly of coffee she thought he’d been doused with it. The smell of food made his stomach growl, and an overwhelming sense of pity made her open the door wider, seize him by the hand, and drag him inside.

"Why d’you order so much stuff?" she asked, between bites of pasta.

"Time saver," he replied, devouring his own spaghetti. He always ate like he hadn’t seen a meal in months. She eyed him, skinny all over, and wondered if perhaps that wasn’t the case. "I’m working on a crucial case, been about a year now - we’re finally close to solving it. Don’t have time for shopping."

"Or eating," she commented, "Or sleeping?"

He shrugged. “Work comes first.”

She frowned.

"I’m alright," he said, his mouth curving slightly. "This is really good, by the way."

"There’s more if you want it."

"Thanks."

 

* * *

 

For an officer of the law, he was ridiculously lax in his personal matters. At least he’d got a haircut, a respectable one, though a bit too short for her liking, hair as nice as his ought to be a bit longer, so you could run your fingers through it- not that she wanted to do that.

"Update your address!" she said, for the hundredth time.

"I have!"

"Why’s all this stuff still coming here, then?"

"It’s not my fault Parcelforce are incompetent!"

"I haven’t got any space left in my hallway," Rose said, annoyed. She set the plate of shepherd’s pie in front of the DI and glowered at him.

"I’ll move them," he promised, and gave her his patented hungry orphan look before digging in with gusto. It was hard to stay upset at him when he did that so she gave up and sat down to eat herself.

He smiled at her - a big, genuine, satisfied smile - and asked her to pass the pepper. Briefly, unaccountably, she forgot how to breathe.

 

* * *

 

As promised, he shifted the ridiculous pile of parcels from her flat to his own, having to make several trips to carry them all. Except he’d left about ten of them behind.

"You forgot these!" Rose said. "Has anyone mentioned the possibility of a severe online shopping addiction? You could use a ten-step program!"

He frowned.

"Sorry, that’s rude." She coloured a bit, embarrassed. "Just a joke, didn’t mean to offend you."

"Oh, no, none taken," he said vaguely, scratching his ear. "Well. Good night, then." He turned to leave.

"Oi, what about these?"

"You open them," he called over his shoulder before disappearing into his flat.

Mystified, Rose went back to her own domicile and dumped the lot on her living room carpet. Hesitantly, she began unwrapping parcels. The contents left her even more confused then before.

Silicone bakeware? A turquoise bracelet. A set of screwdrivers. A silver frame. A boxed set of stationery, pale pink, and a candle that smelled of flowers.

"Oh," she said aloud, looking at it all, quite robbed of speech. Then she stood and hurried next door and rang his doorbell until he answered.

"Look," Rose said, looking up at him, "It’s very nice of you and all, but I can’t accept all this. Wouldn’t be right."

"Why not?"

"It just wouldn’t be!"

"That’s not a valid reason," he said, cocking a brow slightly. "They’re a thank you. For your troubles."

She felt embarrassed, suddenly, which was ridiculous. There was no reason to be self-conscious in front of her oddball neighbour.

"It’s… it’s too much," she finally managed.

"Oh," he said. "Well. What wouldn’t be too much? I suppose I could return the frame and the jewelry, but are you sure you don’t want the screwdrivers? They’ll come in handy."

"Return all of it," said Rose firmly. "If you can’t, I’ll pay you for it."

He opened his mouth to argue, but Rose cut him off.

"If you really want to thank me, then you can take me out to dinner."

The Detective Inspector gaped at her for a moment. Then he muttered, “Okay. Dinner. Got it.”

"Fancy dress."

His eyes widened in horror.

"I’m kidding." Then, because he looked at her funny, she said, "I mean, about the fancy dress. I’m serious about the dinner. No takeaway. I want real food."

He mumbled something. She blinked, uncertain if she’d heard him correctly.

"Not a great cook. But I could… give it a go, over here."

"Really?"

"If you want."

"Yeah."

"Dinner."

"Yeah."

"7. Tomorrow."

"Really?"

He rubbed his neck. “Already got the potatoes. Figured I ought to… return the favour, at some point.” A flush crept over his face, and once again, Rose found it difficult to breathe. “S’only neighbourly, after all.”


	5. The One With The Spare Bedroom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #8 - Roommates AU

"HERE WE ARE, then," John says grandly, throwing open the door of the guest bedroom with great pomp and circumstance. Rose stands on tiptoe to peer over his shoulder and observes a small room complete with bed, nightstands, and a wardrobe in the corner. "What do you think?"

"It’s nice," she says, ducking under his arm to step into the room, turning slowly to survey it’s contents.

John eagerly turns on the Tiffany lamp on the left nightstand, washing the room with a soft, buttery glow. “Do you like these? I got them last week, hadn’t realised the old lamps in here weren’t working at all. And sorry about the carpet, it’s a bit old but I did vacuum it last night-“

"Sorry," Rose says, feeling like an intruder on his personal space. "I’ll be out of your way as soon as I can find a new flatmate and-"

"You can stay as long as you like! I’d love for you to stay!"

"Oh," says Rose, her cheeks hot, "Well, thanks. I won’t be noisy or keep the telly on all night or forget to do the washing up, I promise."

"That’s quite alright," John winks. "I’m noisy enough for the both of us, and I’ve been known to marathon Elvis films till dawn on a regular basis. As for washing up, well, takeaway comes in containers you throw away after, it’s absolutely brilliant."

His manner is so kind and enthusiastic, Rose can’t help but feel welcome. And a bit… self-conscious. An earlier conversation pops into her head, suddenly taking on deeper meaning.

_"So this bloke, he just asks you to move in with him and you say yes?"_

_"He didn’t ask. He offered, because you left me in the lurch. He’s just being nice. Anyway, it’s temporary."_

_"Dunno about that."_

_"What? I’ll find something eventually."_

_"Yeah, yeah. I meant the other bit. ‘Bout him being nice."_

_"What are you talking about?"_

_"Oh, nevermind. You’ll either find out, or you won’t."_

She sits on the bed, which is strangely lumpy. Pulling the duvet back-

"Oh, sorry, that’s my friend Charley’s. She must have forgot it when she was staying here a few weeks ago." He picks up the frilly socks ruefully. "Oh. There’s something else under the bed." A black headband dangles from his finger. "This must be Clara’s. Keeps complaining about losing it, she’ll be pleased I’ve finally found it! Ah- Donna’s scarf. How peculiar."

A strange little weight settles in her stomach, almost like disappointment, but Rose ignores it. She knows better than to expect anything other than kindness and friendship from John. He’s lovely, and generous, and she has learned from her failed relationship with Mickey not to jeopardise perfectly good friendships with ideas of romance.

Anyway, it’s entirely possible he’s not free for that sort of thing anyway. _Or too free_ , a knowing little voice says in her head, _judging by the state of this room_.

"Are you absolutely sure it’s okay for me to stay here?" Rose asks, a new worry popping into her head. John is single, unmarried, and handsome, after all. It’s almost guaranteed that he’ll have guests over at some point. "I don’t want to take up your spare bedroom-"

"No, no," he says quickly, getting down on his hands and knees to check under the bed again. "You are absolutely welcome to stay for as long as you like-"

Several minutes - and more than several lost personal effects - later, the spare bedroom is finally declared to be Rose’s domain. It’s more blue than she’d like but her shockingly pink sheets make up for it, as glaring as the colour scheme is.

He grins. “This is going to be just grand! I haven’t had a flatmate in years!”

A feeling of pleasure and warmth suffuses her, making Rose feel welcome. She returns his smile and wonders if perhaps it’s not fate that brought him to the men’s department at Henrik’s two months ago, on a search for the right tie to wear to a University function.

Their chance meeting that day led to a burgeoning friendship between two completely mismatched individuals from completely different walks of life - culminating in John overhearing her distressed phone call with her ex-flatmate Keisha, whose family troubles had left Rose in a bit of a situation. She’d found herself suddenly without the resources or financial ability to maintain living quarters on her own.

"I’ve got a spare bedroom!" he’d said, face lighting up over a rack of men’s oxford shirts.

The rest, as they say, is history.

 

* * *

 

Apart from giving her a place to stay, insisting on only the minimum of rent (on this point, they argue for days, until they finally settle on a number that is neither impossible for Rose but also not insulting to her sense of pride), John Smith is a good flatmate as far as flatmates go.

He doesn’t leave a mess laying around, except in his own bedroom; he always lets her use the bathroom first, he tells her funny jokes and pretends he hasn’t got a sweet tooth when in reality she’s amazed he still has got any teeth at all.

What worries her, though, is that sometimes he forgets to eat real food. And by sometimes, she means regularly. As in, every few days. As in, he’ll not eat for an entire day and a half because he’s working on his doctoral thesis and physical needs like sustenance come second to the intricacies of the atomic universe.

So despite not being a very good cook, in general, Rose starts making meals here and there, simple things like sandwiches or beans on toast and occasionally, when she has a spot of free time to bake, cupcakes.

"Ees er sew grruerd!"

"You need to take breaks," Rose reminds him gently, putting another cupcake on his plate. "Every two hours, I want you to eat something."

He swallows. “I can’t go out every two hours for food! I have to finish my thesis!”

She rests her chin on her palms and considers. “I’ll leave food in the fridge for you, as long as you promise not to forget.”

"I promise," he says solemnly, with all the gravitas of someone making an unbreakable vow. "I will not forget to eat the food you make for me. Never."

It’s a bit daft to feel so pleased by this pronouncement, but Rose feels it anyway. Steady on, she tells herself, and tries very hard not to stare at his mouth as he delivers a long, complicated lecture on atomic structure that she doesn’t understand in the least.

"You’re the best flatmate I’ve ever had," he declares, "And I only take the best!"

Rose laughs. “Go on, have another.”

 

* * *

 

Sunday evenings in their flat are lovely, lovely things. Rose works a short afternoon shift and brings home takeaway. John runs a bath for her and adds a mixture of salts and little dried lavender leaves to relieve her sore muscles from standing all day. Rose tells stories about the rude customers she’s dealt with all day and John segues into idle tangents about chemical compounds and compares Rose’s pink nail varnish to certain types of volcanic gas.

She finds herself snuggled into his side more often than not by the end of the night, his hands playing with her fingers, thumbs running along the tips of her chipped nails.

Sometimes he leans his head on her shoulder, complains of a headache.

"You think too much, that’s the problem," Rose says, gently brushing his fringe back. His hair is surprisingly soft and she can never quite resist the urge to play with it. He lets her. She’s not quite sure it’s the same thing, but the humming vibration she feels coming from him is very much like the purr of a contented cat.

"When you do that," he says, eyes closed, "It’s like all my wayward thoughts fall to order. Helps me think."

Rose feels a flutter low in her stomach.

 

* * *

 

"Hello?" John’s voice is distracted, with an edge of impatience to it.

"Hello? It’s Rose. Listen, I’ll be late tonight, can you-"

"Blast, this is wrong too! OW! Building flat-pack furniture is proving more difficult than I anticipated," his tone is huffy. "Sorry, Rose. I’m helping Donna move into Lee’s. Right now I’m trying to fix this bloody chest of drawers but _SOMEONE_ lost several key components when they dismantled it and it’s just bloody impossible! Pardon my french.”

Rose suppresses a grin. “Good luck. I was just saying, I’ll be home late, remember to leave food out for Charlie, please.”

They’re cat-sitting, for the neighbours, and Charlie can be an absolute monster with his claws and the furniture if he’s not fed on time.

"I will," John agrees. In the background Rose hears shuffling and banging and a heavy sighing that can only be Donna.

"Run your hands through my hair," John commands, suddenly. "It helps me think."

Rose blinks, momentarily confused before realising he’s not speaking to her.

"No way," Donna retorts, sounding appalled. "It’s full of gunk. I don’t want my fingers covered in that stuff!"

"Rose always does!"

On the other end of the line, Donna’s voice is loud and clear and derisive. “Well, maybe you should ask Rose to rub your head for you, I’m not doing it! Oh, that’s vile, get away from me!”

"Donna! Just do it!"

_"No!"_

The line goes dead suddenly. Rose slides her phone shut, and slips it into her bag. She feels odd, disgruntled, but she can’t quite pinpoint why.

 

* * *

 

"We should go see a film," John says one weekend and so they do. At the theatre Rose picks a new horror release, because all the other choices seem to be  romantic comedies. It’s not a date, just a whim, and frankly she doesn’t want to be reminded of that the whole time.

She remembers - just as someone returns from the loo and the scary bits begin - that she’s a big fat scaredy-cat. The rest of the film passes in a blur of muffled screams and John’s sleeve and his random muttering of things like ‘oh, here it comes, close your eyes’ or ‘don’t go into the basement, you ninny!’

The lights come back on, startling Rose. She pulls away from the John’s shoulder and feels silly and flushed in the face. He squeezes her hand and remarks jokingly, “I’ve lost all feeling in both arms!”

_Huh?_

Rose sits up and notices, for the first time, that the woman who had squeezed past them halfway through the film is very blonde, very pretty, and very much clinging to John’s other arm.

After his new friend Astrid Perth has given him her name, her number, her place of work, her bloody life story - they finally part ways and take the tube home.

"It was rather frightening, wasn’t it? The bit where they were dragged out of bed by the ankle, gave me the shivers! I thought Astrid was going to fracture my hand!" Then, mistaking her untalkativeness for embarrassment, he says, "Nothing to be ashamed about. If you were frightened, you know."

"I wasn’t," says Rose.

"We can watch a comedy next time," he offers blithely.

She wonders: is it strange to want to cuddle _and_ strangle a person at the same time?

 

* * *

 

They go to a party together, but not really together, and everyone kind of knows it.

Jack starts his usual flirting with everything that walks around on two legs. He makes his way to John and Rose and practically makes John blush with his innuendos. Finally John excuses himself to get refills and Jack refocuses his effort on the remaining person at the table.

Rose looks at him in surprise and grins. “Are you flirting with me? You never flirt with me.”

"If I’d known you’d like it, I would’ve started ages ago." He’s grinning back. "That smile could light up suns. No wonder."

"What?"

"No wonder he’s a goner."

"He… you mean John?" Rose blinks and then laughs. "Don’t be silly."

"Didn’t think I stood a chance," says Jack lightly. "The way you two look at each other."

"You always flirt with him."

"Doesn’t mean anything. His attention is elsewhere." Jack winks. "Lucky girl."

Rose feels her cheeks go pink. “We’re just mates,” she says. “It’s not like that.”

Jack arches one brow and drawls with interest,  ”Really? Coulda fooled me.”

Before she can respond in protest, John’s there, at her back, with drinks.

"Gonna hafta wait," declares Jack loudly, as a song with a thumping bass beat starts blasting through the club. "My name is next on the lady’s dance card."

John looks surprised. “Oh. You’re going to dance?”

"Love this song," says Jack. "Don’t you?"

"No," says John, his attention fixed on Rose.

"Well, Rose said she wants to dance," says Jack, flinging his arm over her shoulder. "Since you don’t dance, I’ll do the honours."

She can feel John watching them the entire time they’re on the dance floor and every few minutes Jack says ‘he’ll come over soon’ or ‘he’ll cut in at the end of this song’ but it doesn’t happen.

Jack finally gives up and brings Rose back to the table, both of them flushed from their exuberant dancing. It had been fun. Regardless of… dashed expectations, it had been fun.

"Thanks," says Rose, giving Jack a hug.

"Anytime, gorgeous," says Jack, kissing the top of her head. "He dumber than I thought."

"He’s not dumb," Rose replies mildly, feeling protective. It’s not John’s fault, after all; it’s just the way he is. "He’s the opposite."

"Dumb as bricks," says Jack, shaking his head. "Aaaaand here he comes. Late as usual."

John indeed comes sauntering over, still holding a pint in each hand. “Done dancing, are we?”

"For now." Jack grins. "Ianto’s here. That’s my cue. See you kids later."

"Thanks for watching my drink," Rose says into the awkwardness. John shrugs, and settles down next to her. Within minutes the tension is gone, and Rose wonders if she imagined it.

 

* * *

 

They’re all sitting around a table now, half-drunk, and Jack has got his arms around Rose and Ianto, and is staring directly at John, a challenge in his expression.

"If me and Donna are both unconscious, who would you save first?" asks Jack.

"Weeell," says John slowly, thoughtfully, "You’re physically more likely to survive than Donna is, so-"

"Right, Donna first. Okay."

"I was about to say, I would resuscitate you first, and then you’d help me with her-"

"Whatever. There’s a fire, and Rose and Donna are both trapped inside, and you can only carry one of them out-"

John looks shocked at the idea. “I’d come back for both of them! And call the fire department!”

Donna rolls her eyes.

"But say they’re both drowning," Jack insists, "And you can only save one of them-"

"Why would you both be drowning?"

"Will you just answer the question?"

"But I don’t understand why-"

"Pick! You can only pick one!"

"I would save you both," he says finally.

Everyone groans.

"Of course I would," says John, puzzled. "I love all of my friends equally. You’re all fantastic."

"You amaze me," says Jack, shaking his head, and Rose suddenly doesn’t have the willpower to look away or pretend she hasn’t heard.

 

* * *

 

They’re on the way home, Rose walking in the park grass barefoot with her heels in her hand, and John on the sidewalk. He’s not quite sober, nor is she, after all the drinks and Jack’s ribbing. Sober enough, however, to know better than to drive, so it’s lucky they remember how to get home on foot. Rose’s head is buzzing in a way that’s not wholly unpleasant.

It’s close to dawn and they’re oddly quiet for two people who have been out partying all night.

"Did you have fun?" she asks, to break the silence.

"Did you?"

"Course," she says, stepping onto the little upraised concrete ledge that separates the sidewalk from the park grounds. She pulls her hand free and places it on his shoulder to keep her balance. He puts his hand on her back, steadying her. It’s a friendly gesture, but like everything else about this particular night, it feels a bit strange, a little bit off-kilter.

"I’d save you first, you know," Rose says after a bit, because she just can’t help herself.

"Eh?"

"You know." She shrugs, steps off the ledge clumsily, scraping her foot on the asphalt. It stings and makes her wince. John frowns but she distracts him by saying, "In a fire, in a lake, dangling off a cliffside. So."

He smiles, a bit lopsidedly, which makes her heart feel like it wants to tilt over to the same angle, to match him in every way it can. She loses her balance again and the buzzing in her head gets worse, not better.

"But you," she says, because it’s so unfair, isn’t it, this state of affability - this constant good-natured-ness, this all around _niceness_ that never diminishes or increases, that treats everyone with the same amount of care and concern and interest - “You wouldn’t.”

"I would, too!"

"Nah," she replies, dropping her heels and stepping into them. She totters away from him, sighing. "S’not fair. I’m mad about you, but you just-"

There’s a second of silence, as her hand slips out of his. He says, sharply, “What?”

"You’re just _nice_ , aren’t you? _Nice John_.”

"Rose, hey, wait, Rose- be careful-!"

She trips. She trips very badly, and falls face first into the grass, and hits her head.

 

* * *

 

The A&E is packed, and they’re in the queue for ages, until finally Rose gets her turn and has stitches put into her forehead where a stray rock came into contact with it thanks to gravity. John holds her hand the entire time, and he’s way more upset about everything that’s happening than she is.

It’s not as bad as it looks, the nurse says, head wounds always bleed a lot. She adds that Rose might have a concussion even though she’s not showing signs of it, so John had better take the day off tomorrow and stay home to keep an eye on her.

 

* * *

 

The painkiller wears off in the morning, and Rose wants to cry. John hasn’t slept at all, it seems. She doesn’t have a concussion. In fact, she thinks she has a hangover, made worse by the throbbing of the cut on the side of her skull. Her ankle is sprained from the fall.

But the worst is that she remembers everything. She remembers drinking too much, she remembers walking through the park, she remembers falling and hitting her head and she remembers what she said before she did that.

He comes into her bedroom with a tray and two ibuprofen tablets, and asks, sympathetically, “Does it hurt very much?”

"No," she replies, touching the bandage above her right temple.

"It won’t leave a scar."

"S’alright." She shrugs. Even if it does she’ll just cover it with her fringe.

"You might have a concussion." He squints at her head like he’s trying to look inside it. "Do you feel dizzy?"

"No."

"What about your stomach? Do you want to vomit?"

"No." She makes a face.

"D’you remember anything that happened before you hit your head?"

"No."

John frowns, and looks worried. “That’s a symptom-“

"I remember walking on the grass," she interrupts, because she feels fine, really, ache-y all over, but not in a severe-brain-injury sort of way. "S’all a bit blurry… I was drunk, remember?"

"Yeah." He looks at her head again, and then hands her the tablets and watches as she swallows them down.

"I’m fine," she insists. "Sorry."

"What for?"

"You’ve got better things to do-"

"Don’t be silly. Can’t think of a single thing," he says firmly.

She smiles weakly, but still feels guilty. “It’s my own fault. You’re busy, and-“

"Rubbish." And then he adds, "You’re my roommate, so it’s my duty to take care of you. It’s the nice thing to do."  

His tone is mild, perfectly normal.

She swallows, thickly, and croaks, “Water, please.”

John hands her a glass.

 

* * *

 

Rose starts feeling better by the afternoon, but John insists on staying with her. They camp out in the living room, Rose wrapped in a blanket on the sofa and John cross-legged on the floor in front of her, his laptop perched on the coffee table. It’s too low and he’s crouched over it, uncomfortably, but he refuses to work at his desk.

"Symptoms can take up to 24 hours to fully run their course. I’m not taking any chances."

"I feel better," Rose says.

"Remember anything yet?"

"No," she lies. 

It’s just that kindness isn’t always enough. Hovering on the edge of something less and more is painful, but not as painful as the certain knowledge that affection is not reciprocated. The most honest part of her knows this is cowardice, but she’s good at telling that part to shut up.

 

* * *

 

"It’s been two days, John. I’m _fine._ ”

"I told you, I’m staying home to work on my thesis."

It’s an excuse and they both know it. But she’s glad for it, because it’s tough getting around with a swollen foot. He’s always there, helping her, feeding her, renting films and tucking fuzzy blankets over her like she’d a baby who needs swaddling. It’s a bit ridiculous, but it’s sweet, and she secretly enjoys being fussed over like this.

Tonight they’re watching Casablanca. Rose leans against him, her cheek pressed to his collar, his arm around her.

"Thank you," she says, snuggling into his chest.

His eyes crinkle at the corners and he lifts a hand to stroke her hair. “You’re welcome.”

"You’re always so nice to me," she murmurs, sleepily.

She dimly hears him speak, right before she drifts off into dreams, “What did you say?”

 

* * *

 

He’s spoiled her, he has.

Suddenly leaving her bereft of company all day, it simply isn’t fair. But John has other obligations - to his friends, his Uni department, his thesis - and Rose feels pathetic. She’s still not fully mobile, not for another week probably, because of her stupid ankle. 

He’s spent his day out assisting his friend Martha with some research, and helping Donna shift some more furniture, and lending Astrid a book she’s wanted to borrow for some time now. All of this is cheerfully reported to Rose when he brings her supper in the evening.

Now he’s off to the pub, apparently; Jack’s invited him, claiming some sort of bloke crisis - which is just _ridiculous_. 

Something hot and prickly and impetuous simmers under her skin, making her reticent and cranky. Rose isn’t good at hiding her feelings, she’s always been an open book, easy to read. John notices. Her listlessness and one-syllable answers to his conversation aren’t exactly subtle. 

"You feeling okay?"

"No." _I’m bored. You left me alone all day._ But she only says, “My head hurts.” He looks worried, which makes her feel bad, so she rescinds the statement. “Only a little bit. S’okay.”

"You’re looking a bit flushed, actually. Let me take your temperature."

"No, don’t bother. I’m fine. Go on. Go see Jack."

"Not if you’re ill," he says staunchly, reaching out to touch her forehead. She pulls away. "You’re acting funny." 

This makes her scowl. “I’m not! I’m- I’m feeling poorly! You should be nice to me!”

The remark escapes her lips before she can control herself, but by then it’s too late. John’s head is turned, his expression alert and aware and she knows he _knows_.

"Rose." He sits on the bed. He slides his hand into her hair, careful not to disturb the bandage. "Being nice to you is my top priority." 

Heat breaks out over her skin from head to toe.

"Haven’t I been?" 

"You always are. That’s the problem." She looks away and lets the statement sit like an elephant in the room. And then, with a touch of bitterness, adds, "You’re nice to everybody."

"Not with you. It’s different with you." His finger strokes her ear, sends a tingle down her spine. "Didn’t you know?"

"How?"

He tilts his head, considering her question.

"How’s it any different?" she demands, again.

"You really don’t know?" He sits up a bit straighter, meets her gaze dead on. “We’re always together. We do everything together.”

"Course we are. We live together."

"We hold hands-"

She snorts. “You hold hands with everybody.”

"I don’t."

"Martha, and Donna, and Astrid-"

"That’s different. I don’t go on dates with them."

This stuns her momentarily. “When have we gone on a date?”

"We go on dates all the time. We go to the park and the movies and on walks and-" He adds meaningfully, "We cuddle on the sofa together. You - you massage my hair." 

They both recall Donna’s feelings on the subject and suddenly it seems more intimate than it ever has before.

John cups the back of her neck. There’s a pleading note to his voice. “Rose?”

A flicker of something passes through Rose - anticipation, mingled with the desire to make him squirm. She shakes her head, deliberately pushes her tongue behind her front teeth and looks up at him through her lashes.

"I’m thirsty," she says.

"I’ll pour you some water."  
  
"There’s an itch under my bandage."  
  
"I’ll change it for a new one."  
  
"I’m bored." Her hand moves to his waist of its own accord. "Don’t go to the pub."

"Okay."

"My head hurts."

"Does it really?"

"Yeah." She tugs on the hem of his shirt, pulls him closer. "So you… you be extra nice to me."

He does exactly that.


	6. The One With The Warden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #38 - Cop/Person Getting A Parking Ticket AU

The first time they crossed paths, he was sprinting out of his publisher’s office, racing against time, hoping against all hope that his legs and gravity would somehow meld together and produce a miracle.

No such luck. The warden had her ticket pad in hand as he jogged up to her, out of breath.

"Come on," he said pleadingly, "Give us a break, I’ve an hour at least!"

"I wait five minutes before I issue a ticket in a pay-and-display car park," she said with her head bent, reciting from memory in a monotone as she scribbled, "And two minutes for someone on yellow lines, unless the lines are zigzags or stripes on the kerb, which means no loading." She pointed at the line peeking out under the wheel of his car. "That’s an instant fine."

The very loud groan that issued from his lungs made her turn her head his way, giving him a look at her face for the first time.

He was instantly distracted.

Her blonde hair was gathered in a tight knot at the back of her head, showing off a graceful neck and a face full of character, high cheekbones and full rosy lips. The eyes that surveyed him from under slightly narrowed eyebrows were the warmest shade of honeyed brown he’d ever seen, like the colour of perfectly brewed tea right before you added the milk… blimey, he was thirsty from running.

"Feel free to appeal to the council," she said, handing him the ticket. "Have a nice day."

* * *

 

"Good morning!" he said, giving her a wide smile.

"Mornin’," she said dispassionately, tucking the yellow ticket under his windshield wiper. "Check your watch, mate, you’re two minutes late again."

"Oh, I know."

She looked at him suspiciously, but he shrugged.

"Saw you from the window, but there wasn’t a chance in hell I’d be able to outrun you from the fifth floor."

"Mhm. Have a nice day."

"I will! Ta!"

 

* * *

 

"On Armistice Day in 2008, my sister got a fine for standing next to her car. Seriously! She was working in Chiswick at the time. The parking attendent faced away from her and wrote the ticket while she was observing the silence."

"That’s very unfortunate," replied the warden as she handed him a hefty £60 ticket.

 

* * *

 

"Is it true that you’re issued knife-proof vests when you start training to become a traffic warden because the public hates members of your profession so much?"

She didn’t reply. He looked at the piece of paper on his windshield. Another £50.

"See you next week," he called out cheerfully, watching her walk away.

 

* * *

 

Wardens were assigned different beats every day, apparently, something he soon found out in his research on the matter - they were privatized employees, disliked by the general public and treated in much the same manner as a postman might be treated by a house dog - with rabid, frothing hatred.

His fair warden was no exception. She was infamous amongst the locals, his editor in particular loathed her with a passion he usually reserved for French people and left wing politics.

He admired her single-minded upkeep of the law. She was by-the-book, unrepentantly so, and never batted a lash at dealing out fines if she observed an infraction, no matter how minor.

There were moments, though, that drew concern from him, but always she proved herself to be made of stern stuff, never backing down, never showing fear.

He was smitten.

 

* * *

 

"He’s running… running… 50 paces… 45 paces… oh, a stumble, that’s unlucky! … 30 paces… almost there, mate… almost… 15 paces…"

He shook his head, saw the blonde warden scribbling on her pad and tear the top sheet off. She stuck it to the windshield of the car that belonged to the heavy-set, panting bloke who slowed to a stop a few feet away, cursing his mouth off.

There was a tense moment - he had his hand on his own door handle, ready to sprint in the event things escalated beyond a certain point. But fortunately it didn’t happen - the warden merely regarded the bloke stonily as he shouted abuse at her. She didn’t so much as flinch.

"I’m just doing my job, sir," she said, and walked away.

 

* * *

 

"Must you be so strict? The locals would like you more if you gave them warnings instead."

"Someone breaks the rules, they get penalised. Simple as that."

"That’s a very black and white view of the world. No room for extenuating circumstances? What if I parked illegally to help someone who had fallen ill or collapsed? Would you slap me with a fine?"

"Yes." The response came without hesitation. "You’d appeal and get the charges revoked."

"Can’t be an easy job." He stood with his hands in his pockets beside his car as she wrote up a ticket. She handed it to him and put her pen and pad away.

"It was this or hair-dressing," she said before walking off, much to his to his amazement.

 

* * *

 

"You wouldn’t have to wear a knife-proof vest if you were a hair-dresser." He poked his head out of the driver seat window. "Though I must say, that shade of eye-blinding neon green is very becoming on you. Me, I’d just look like Kermit."

She looked away quickly, very quickly, but he saw it anyway: the slight upwards incline of the corner of her mouth, so brief it was just a twitch.

"Was that a smile?" he asked.

Her head shook, mouth now pressed into a straight, professional line.

"That was a smile," he said in a singsong voice, which made her twitch again. Grinning, he tapped the window where the ticket she’d just issued him was stuck. "Worth it."

 

* * *

 

He arrived at his car just as she was writing him up, a few minutes from the end of her shift.

"A little leniency wouldn’t hurt, you know."

Maybe he’d worn her down, or maybe because she was almost off the clock, but she was more talkative today.

She said, “Could cost me my job. Not worth the risk.”

Curiosity overtook him. “D’you enjoy being a traffic warden?”

He wondered about that a lot. Something about the way she carried herself - rigid, forcefully erect, no leeway for slack or the smallest of mistakes - it rang false. He was certain she wasn’t a stickler for the rules by nature.

She checked her wristwatch and blinked. The change in her posture as she realised her work day was over was telling - relief lingered in her eyes, and her shoulders relaxed, slightly.

"Debt," she said, matter-of-fact. It took him a moment to connect the word to his question from a minute ago.

"Really? You’re awfully young to have collected debt. You’re what-? Twenty-four? Twenty-five?

"Twenty."

Blimey.

There was a pause, as she unclipped her arm band and slipped her jacket off. He watched keenly, feeling like he was being given a treat for good behaviour. He was being allowed to see her as she was when she wasn’t wearing the mantle of civil officer.

"Ex-boyfriend’s, actually."

"What?"

"The debt. Inherited from him." She undid the knot at the back of her head and shook the shiny blond strands loose. They cascaded in a wavy mass about her shoulders. She rubbed her wrist, as if soothing an old, invisible injury, in much the same way he’d seen his war veteran Gramps rub at an old bullet wound. "Left me broke. Had to go back home to me mum. This job pays better than foldin’ shirts at Henrik’s. I’m keeping it."

"Oh. I see."

"Yeah. Well. Bye." She left him standing on the sidewalk, lost for words.

 

* * *

 

He spent two weeks in Cardiff with his editor and assistant, both of whom complained about the weather, the lack of amenities at the hotel, and the terrible roads.

London always seemed so enchanting when you got away from it - but really it was more of the same: rain, fog, dreariness. It did have one thing Cardiff lacked, though, and he spent a lot of moments in between parties and book signings wondering about that thing and how it was doing and whether it was making up for his absence by doubling fines on other rule-breaking motorists.

He hoped so. He also hoped not. Mostly he itched to return to the city, and make a nuisance of himself some more, and possibly someday wrangle a real smile out of her.

 

* * *

 

She was strolling down a side street when he cruised by, rolling down his window as he slowed down and honked. She looked over, a magnificent scowl on her face - clearly expecting him to be some youthful miscreant with the audacity to issue a catcall at Enfield’s most renowned Civil enforcement officer. The scowl morphed into a brief look of surprise, her eyes brightening for a second, and then grim resignation settled back in.

"I was in Wales," he told her. "Book launch. Almost got a ticket there from a traffic warden who fancied me, but I got away with it. For the record, London has far more principled and comely civil servants-"

"Enforcement officers," she corrected, turning her head away. If he wasn’t mistaken, however, there was a bit of a spring in her step that hadn’t been there before.

"You were looking for me, weren’t you?" He grinned. “Did you miss me?”

"I’ve got a quota to fill," she said. "Thought I’d lost my best customer."

"You missed me."


	7. The One With The Hamster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 19 - Parents meeting when they take their kids to class AU

Uncle John was under the desk when the classroom door opened.

"Ouch!" He cried, hitting his head. "No!"

Ella dove for it without needing to be told to. She pushed the lady who had entered aside, before encountering a second body, a smaller one, about her height - she recognized it immediately.

"Get in!" she gasped, making a grab for the boy who had been trailing behind the woman. Slamming the door shut, she turned the lock and exclaimed, "Muffy’s escaped!"

"Seriously?" Tony Tyler’s eyes widened. He sat next to Ella in class and was pretty nice for a boy. He always told her stupid jokes and sometimes they even made her laugh. He nudged the lady, who looked very confused. "Muffy’s our class hamster."

"She’s still in the room, don’t worry," called Uncle John’s voice, out of sight. He was on the floor on his hands and knees, making whistling noises which seemed kind of funny but also interesting - and Uncle John was really really smart and knew everything there was to know so Ella knew he had a reason for it. "I’m pretty sure, anyway. Reasonably. She didn’t run out the door just now did she? Pitter-patter right past your feet, Cindy-pants?"

"No," Ella scoffed. "That’s my Uncle," she explained to Tony. "He’s a specialist, he’ll find Muffy."

"A specialist in what?" asked Tony’s - Mum? Aunty? She was blonde and had really cool shoes. Mummy would like those shoes.

"Everythin’," said Ella proudly.

"Not quite, but ta, love," said Uncle John, popping his head up over the edge of the desk. He spotted the lady and brightened. "Oh. Hello."

"Tha’s my sister," Tony said to Ella. 

"Your sister’s pretty," said Ella, because she was. Uncle John nodded in agreement and then ducked under the desk again.

Tony’s sister said, “Thank you,” and then, “D’you need help?”

"Yeah," said Ella, throwing her brother a dirty look. Joshua was sitting on a desk, clutching his shoes, because he was just six and still a _baby_.

Uncle John emerged, clapping dust off his knees.

Tony’s sister was looking at Uncle John like he was a bit mad, which was okay because most people looked at him that way when they met him for the first time. Uncle John was looking back at her, but in a different way, in the way he sometimes looked at brainteasers or banana daiquiris. He said, “Right. Is there a broom somewhere in this class?”

"What do you need a broom for?" asked Ella.

"Muffy’s hiding in the corner of the room under the desk. There’s a leg in the way and I can’t reach her. But I think I can use a broom to nudge her out, gently, of course-"

"Is there a supply closet, perhaps?" asked Tony’s sister.

"Across the hall," said Tony.

"Oh bugger." Uncle John ran his hands through his hair, which was something Mummy said he did a lot when he was nervous. Ella supposed he was worried he’d be blamed if they lost Muffy, but she didn’t think it was his fault.

Someone started banging on the door, which startled everyone. Their form teacher’s voice rang out, very peeved-sounding: “Why is the door locked? Who’s in there? Let me in immediately!”

"We can’t unlock the door," Tony said to his teacher through the keyhole, "Ella’s uncle left the door to Muffy’s cage open and she escaped and now we can’t find her and Ella’s brother is sitting on Robbie’s desk without his shoes!"

"I don’t want the hamster to go up my trousers!"

"I really don’t think that’s going to happen again, buddy, that was a one-off with your father," said Uncle John distractedly. "And thank you Tony for your very concise summary of events, but I think you’d better inform your teacher the real culprit is in fact the latch on the cage, which is faulty-"

"It wasn’t faulty on Friday!" was Miss Oswald’s highly unimpressed reply.

Something squeaked by Ella’s foot - she jumped. Muffy moved really fast. She was a streak of light brown, crossing the floor so fast Ella’s eyes crossed trying to follow her.

Muffy scurried over someone’s rucksack and book pile, fast as lightning. She used the dangling sleeve of a discarded hoodie hanging off the back of a chair to somehow climb onto a desk - it was next to the one Joshua was still sitting on. He shrieked and pointed. 

Both Uncle John and Tony’s sister pounced, from opposite sides of the room - Rose got there first, but she missed, and Muffy scampered off the desk, back onto the chair, and then to the ground. Uncle John dove for her, but he missed, too, and tripped on the sleeve of the hoodie. Tony’s sister reached out with a hand to steady him, but he was too heavy, maybe, and took her down with him. They crashed to the floor with loud groans and the noisy clattering of the desk as it toppled over.

"Uncle John!" cried Ella, at the same time as Tony, who shouted, "Rose!"

The door burst open.

"What’s going on in here?" said a voice.

Joshua stood up on the desk. “Mummy!”

"I’ve got her," said Miss Oswald triumphantly, brandishing a wriggling Muffy in her hands. She looked from Mummy to Tony to Ella. "What? Where’s your Uncle?"

Tony pointed to the legs at his feet.

"Mummy!" shouted Joshua, again. "Mummy, the hamster escaped! Uncle John fell on Tony’s sister! He’s not kissin’ her though!"

"Thank you, Joshua," said Uncle John from the floor. Someone giggled - it was Tony’s sister. She seemed to find it funny, which Ella thought was pretty nice of her, because both Mummy and Miss Oswald seemed annoyed and they weren’t the ones being squashed to the ground.

 

* * *

 

Uncle John banned Ella and Joshua from telling the story later, when he and Aunty Rose started dating, because Mummy always made fun of him, and Daddy claimed it wasn’t anything to be embarrassed about, since everyone already suspected Rose had swept him off his feet the moment they laid eyes on each other.


	8. The One Where They're Just Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #2 - Best Friends AU

It happened on the beach, that summer they first met, him a lifeguard on his Uni break, her a beach bum, hanging out with no-good friends, spending all their days flirting with boys from school or tanning on the sand in their too-small bikinis on old ratty towels. He’d saved her from drowning several weeks ago and they’d struck up a friendship.

"I really like you," she said, eyes bright, face upturned, slight sunburn on her nose and the tops of her cheeks, lending credence to that ‘pink and yellow’ colour scheme he’d mentally assigned to her. "I mean, I like you a lot. And I want to be your girlfriend."

Straight to the point, as always - Rose Tyler was blunt, always stating her observations with a startling clarity of vision that impressed him, even as he wished she weren’t so astute. For a nineteen year old, she saw far too much.

"Do you like me?"

A loaded question. He did like her. She was funny and fun to be with and could be astonishingly kind. Her hands were very soft. And those big brown doe eyes were beguiling when they wanted to be.

But still. He wasn’t the sort for romance, especially not with girls like Rose. She was too innocent for him, too young, too everything.

"Sorry," he said, knowing it was the right thing to do.

 

* * *

 

He thought they were good. He genuinely, truly, really did think so. It was just a crush. She’d get over it.

But he was wrong, and to make things worse she was a freshman at his Uni this semester and they were in the same Literature department to boot. He was pretty sure at some point he’d be her TA if she didn’t change course, and it seemed unlikely that she would.

Several weeks went by. She was seeing someone else now, some kid called Adam, who was a bit of a cocky smart arse truth be told. She could do better but that wasn’t his call.

To his astonishment, however, she deliberately avoided him on campus. When they happened to be at the same pub one night with several mutual friends, she pulled him aside and told him she wasn’t comfortable with the circumstances.

"I can’t be just your friend," she said, looking him right in the eye. "Not… right now. It’s too hard for me. Give it time, I s’pose, maybe someday, I could-"

"Even though you’ve got a boyfriend?" He asked, coolly.

She shrugged.

 

* * *

 

He didn’t like Adam. 

But that was mostly because Adam was a bit shifty, as his friend Donna would say, and she was a pretty good judge of character. So when a fellow TA came to him with the troubling suspicion that one of the freshmen was rigging the online marking system to manufacture better grades for themselves, he was immediately on alert.

It didn’t take much to catch the culprit. Rose was, unfortunately, present when the Dean of Colleges and two Professors conducted a search of the boy’s dormitory room. 

She was down at the pub two nights later, sharing a pint with Martha. He studied her carefully for traces of depression or heartbreak, but could not find much in the way of either.

"S’alright if you’re upset,” he said. “He’s your boyfriend, after all.”

"Not anymore," she replied, grimly. 

(This made him grin every time he thought about it for weeks afterwards, especially when it transpired that the idiot had left all the evidence in the open, condemning himself.)

Rose was happily no longer avoiding him. Apparently all it took was to date - and break up - with one lousy other bloke and they could go back to being chummy with each other. Relief was the predominant feeling he had, and any nagging remnants of awkward crushing were very firmly pushed away. He was glad.

 

* * *

 

The following semester brought rain, exams, and all sorts of misfortune in the shape of an American exchange student by the name of Jack Harkness, who swaggered about in a dark blue military coat with the collar popped like he was some sort of brooding anti-hero. 

Nevermind that Donna pointed out that he himself wore the same brown trenchcoat all the time - that was just practical, that was. 

Jack quickly turned Rose’s head - literally, and figuratively - and within three days of his arrival, they were thick as thieves, spending every free hour together in between classes. Rose was always popping off to give him tours of the city, and always came back pink-faced and slightly wet from the bad weather (what was up with that? Had they never heard of indoor activities?). 

He didn’t trust Harkness any more than he had trusted Adam, and those feelings were quickly validated when the tosser pulled a vanishing act soon after sweeping Rose off her feet. (Later they discovered he hadn’t been enrolled _at all_ , wasn’t even a student, possibly not even _American_ despite the convincing accent.)

“Why’s it always the great looking ones who disappear?” Rose asked, wistfully.

“ _Hey_ ,” he said.

“Don’t start,” she said back, elbowing him in the ribs. 

“I’m trying not to be insulted, here.”

She rolled her eyes. “What do you care? We’re just mates.”

He couldn’t argue with that. But nonetheless. “It’s a matter of principle. I’m a looker and I won’t run out on you.”

“Um. Thanks, I’spose.” 

Her smile was a little lopsided and it didn’t quite meet her eyes, which told him Jack’s departure had hit her harder than she was letting on. He put an arm around her, bracingly, because it was the thing to do, wasn’t it? Between friends.

 

* * *

 

He’d forgot about Mickey. One of the old group, a relic from Rose’s childhood on the estates come up to visit, who drew smiles and laughter from her as easily as John ever could. Possibly even easier, with their shared history and old stories and gossip about old friends who were either married, or pregnant, or had moved to Ipswich for whatever godforsaken reason. 

It was fine, though. Mickey might be an idiot, but at least he seemed loyal, and not a cheat or a flirt, and Rose seemed to enjoy his company. John would not interfere, of course not - he never did. 

But Mickey, being an idiot, was insecure. 

"We’re just friends," said Rose, loud enough for him to hear. "I swear, Mickey. John and I are just friends."

He hurried away at that point, because Mickey started to say something about a hotel room he’d booked, and his voice had gone low and disgusting. That wasn’t a conversation he particularly wanted to hear, and so John made his exit as quickly as possible. It was only proper - Rose wouldn’t want him butting into her personal plans, especially not ones that were clearly dalliances. He tried to forget the name of the hotel and the floor the room would be on, and Mickey’s assurances that it would be _great_ and the way Rose had responded - carefully agreeing to the arrangement.

 

* * *

 

Mickey went away, and so they carried on being chums, exchanging notes and walking to lectures together, and sharing a basket of chips down at the pub on Thursday nights. Donna remarked, “This is the longest, most stable relationship you’ve ever had with a girl your entire life,” which made him blink and feel a little bit sick in the pit of his stomach. He wasn’t quite sure why, and all he could respond with was “We’re just mates, Rose and I- don’t start rumours if you please!”

It wasn’t his fault Rose was there, back from her trip to the loo. It wasn’t as if he’d said anything out of the ordinary, anyway. This was a fact, wasn’t it? Their friendship was concrete gospel, unshakeable - they just got on so well with one another. 

She’d said it herself, a million times. There was no reason for Donna to frown at him repeatedly over the rest of the evening, like he’d put his foot into his mouth. 

(He felt like he had, anyway, and couldn’t figure out why.)

 

* * *

 

It was quite normal for a student to linger after his seminar lecture, so John thought nothing of having company in the room as he wiped the whiteboard clean of his scrawled notes and shoved his papers into his briefcase - Donna said it made him seem more professional, more ‘tenure’ material, though that was a long, long way off. 

Reinette surprised him, though, by bursting into tears when he asked her if there was anything he could do for her. She was his peer, really, and he thought he’d heard through the grapevine that her father was a well-respected researcher in France. Why she’d chosen to study in England was a mystery, but she was beautiful and bright and he wasn’t complaining. She only sat in on his classes as a favour, when he felt he needed a second opinion on the material he was teaching. They’d gone out for meals a handful of times, not exactly _dates_ , but sometimes he wasn’t sure if he could tell the difference anymore.

He had made plans to meet with Rose after this particular session but obviously Reinette’s distress had to be taken care of first. Unfortunately she was so distressed she couldn’t quite vocalise what the exact problem was, and her rather heavy french accent wasn’t improved by sniffles and sobs in any case. 

He offered her a shoulder - or chest, rather, because she was short and only came up to about mid-rib - to cry on, which seemed to be what she pretty much wanted from him. It was awkward but alright, until the door opened and Rose stepped in.

"Oh," she said, shock immobilizing her for a moment. Rose blinked rapidly as her face went pale. He didn’t like that. She looked away, her voice catching slightly as she turned and fled from the room- "Sorry!" 

A heavy feeling suddenly weighed down on his chest, suffocating him. He fought the insane urge to push Reinette aside and run after her - but no, no, that wasn’t proper, that wasn’t kind, he had to stay. Reinette needed his help and she was sensitive and would get the wrong message from such an act. He had to be a gentleman and do the gentlemanly thing and comfort her. He looked down into her glistening, very pretty, very blue eyes.

In the end the urge proved too strong, and he told Reinette he’d be right back. Rose was in the common room, packing her books into her bag, and she was making her way out when he caught up with her.

"Hey, I just-"

"It’s fine!"

They both ground to a halt. Rose’s face was determinedly pointed at the floor, her eyes glued to the scuffed toe of his trainers.

"I shouldn’t have barged in, it’s my fault. I’m sorry if I interrupted. She’s- she’s really beautiful. Lucky you."

There wasn’t anything to deny, in the statement. Reinette was indeed beautiful, and Rose _had_ interrupted, and sure, he was _lucky_ , but strangely he did not feel like any of those things ought to be the way they were. He opened his mouth to say something but nothing came out. Rose fled again.

 

* * *

 

Within two weeks, Reinette was gone. She’d left, gone back to France, made up with her fiancé. That had been the reason behind the tears, according to a fellow graduate student and mutual friend. 

John told Rose so, not knowing what to expect. Her reaction hadn’t been gratifying. 

She’d accepted it without question. 

It hadn’t changed anything between them.

She was still his friend, still hung out with him, still made him laugh with her silly jokes and bad accents. They still got sloshed together down at the pub, but she never sat too close to him anymore, never touched him needlessly, though when she did he never felt the same awareness in her - her touch was casual, meaningless. She even hugged him, like she would Shireen or Mickey. Firmly. Fondly. Without intent.

No expectations.

He found it chafing.

He understood with a startling clarity a truth that had always existed— 

That no matter how many times they said _we’re just friends, just mates_ , no matter how many times he told himself _it’s better this way_ , no matter how many times he sat uneasily aside and watched her go on dates with other blokes, they would never be platonic. There would always be something between them - something more than just friendship, an attraction that couldn’t be fully erased. 

There would always be that moment, on the beach, when Rose Tyler said _I really like you_ while looking up at him with her heart in her eyes, willing him to kiss her, and him standing there like a dumbstruck fool, saying _no_ , _sorry, I don’t like you that way_.

He’d said _no_. He, John, _he_ had said no. He had. There was no refuting that. No denying that cold, hard fact. No way to go back in time and alter history, change what had happened. No way to erase that decision.

He had to live with it.

 

* * *

 

No, he wasn’t going to live with it. That was rubbish, completely rubbish, and it always had been, for _years_ he’d stupidly done that and he was done with doing that.

It didn’t matter that it was raining. It didn’t matter that Rose didn’t live alone, she had a flatmate, Keisha, who wasn’t home but it didn’t matter if she was. When she opened the door, gaping at him, dripping fat droplets of water onto her floor, he said, “I need to talk to you.”

Something in his expression must have alerted her to his intent, because she edged away from him, her eyes skittish. Nervous. Good. He was unsettling her. He wanted to make her feel things, react to him. To be aware. The way she used to be.

“I like you,” he said bluntly. “Do you like me?”

Those big brown eyes - his weakness, he could admit it now - snapped up to bore into his own. Her mouth was slightly open, expression confused and wary, as if she thought this was some kind of trick. 

Ah, well. He deserved it.

"We could never just be friends," he said, reaching for her hand.


	9. The One Where Donna Finds Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #45 - Pretending To Hate Each Other AU

"Saw you talking to the Tyler girl earlier," said Aunt Sylvia over dinner.

"Eh?" His head shot up and a smile spread across his face of it’s own volition. "Oh, you mean Rose?"

Her mouth made a grim, displeased line. Behind her, his cousin Donna shook her head, her expression clearly telegraphing _abort, abort._

 _Uh oh_ , he thought.

* * *

 

He turned the corner onto the street where the Nobles lived and winced at the sight of his aunt and her neighbour going at it again. Donna was standing on the porch. She caught his eye and shook her head.

That was code for: _they’ll be fighting all day_.

He brightened a little, but fought it down, keeping his expression neutral. He waved to Donna and turned back the way he came, climbed over a fence, cut through two yards, gave a particularly noisy dog a treat from his trouser pocket - all of it a well-versed routine - and quietly snuck up to the kitchen door of another house.

It opened after a few stacatto raps on the window pane. He said, “We should have at least an hour-” before a hand grabbed him by the collar and dragged him inside.

 

* * *

 

The real trouble began with the washing.

"Whose vest top is this?" Donna held up the little pink camisole, her eyebrow lifted. "Spaceman?"

She hadn’t used that nickname for him in years. It flustered him as much as the garment in her hand did. The silky little item had somehow ended up in their laundry and Aunt Sylvia had washed it along with his own clothing.

"It’s not mine!"

The retort came out a tad defensively, and he knew Donna’s suspicions were aroused. So he did what he did best when confronted with a situation he didn’t like: he distracted, deflected, and disassembled. And then he bolted.

 

* * *

 

There was a knocking on his door. He froze in the middle of putting one leg into his trousers.

"Hold on a mo! I’m not decent!"

"Well hurry up," said Donna, sounding frustrated. "We haven’t got all day! You’ve been napping for ages!"

He emerged, carefully shutting his door so the contents of his guest bedroom were concealed from view. Distantly he heard the sound of the window creaking open, and fervently hoped Donna hadn’t noticed.

"What’s that smell?" Donna wrinkled her nose, sniffing the air just above his shoulder. "It smells like… flowers."

He stiffened.

"What’d you do, crawl through a rose bush?"

Thank god he was able to turn around and feign a cough to hide the look on his face.

"Mum wants you to go and pass on a message to the Tylers," Donna was saying.

"Why me?" he asked, taken aback. Was this some kind of trick?

"Well, they don’t answer the door anymore when I go over."

 

* * *

 

"Don’t try to pin this on my mum," said Rose Tyler, crossing her arms over her chest. "It was Sylvia who started it."

"Your mother took it a step too far," he shot back, copying her body language. His arms did not push his bosom up appealingly, however, and he wasn’t wearing a hoodie that gaped slightly in the front, but that was immaterial.

Rob, who lived across the street and was walking his dog, stopped a few feet away to stare.

"Keep your voice down," she snapped. "You’re disturbing the whole street!"

"Fine. Let’s go inside and shout some more. Where we won’t have an audience." He threw Rob a dirty look. Rob seemed unaffected.

Rose Tyler spun on her heel and opened her door, leaving it wide open for him to follow. He went along and shut it, glaring at Rob one more time.

 

* * *

 

He came back to the house several hours later, feeling quite cheerful and ravenous. Whistling, he went through the pantry shelves in the kitchen, searching for biscuits.

Donna was looking at him with narrowed eyes when he turned around. He gulped.

She said, without preamble, “You’ve been shagging her, haven’t you?”

"What?"

"You were gone for ages. Doesn’t take that long to tell someone off."

"You’re mad!"

"I’m not stupid. You were totally fooling around over there."

"I have no idea what you’re talking about."

"You have glitter all over your face, Romeo," said Donna, smirking. "Either Rose Tyler left it there when she was snogging ya, or you’ve developed a new skincare regime."

 

* * *

 

He was halfway through the window when she came out of the bathroom, clad in a towel, hair wet, skin slightly pink from the hot shower she’d obviously just taken. His panic abated somewhat at the lovely vision of all that leg on display, but still- he blurted out, “She knows!”

"Who knows? What do they know?"

Stumbling into the room, he sat on the bed and raked his hand through his hair. “Donna! She knows we’re - she knows about us!”

"You told her?"

"No! She guessed!"

"Oh." Rose bit her lip.

"You left glitter on me. How come that always happens, and yet when I look at you I can never find any trace of glitter or sparkle at all? Where is it coming from?"

"Dunno. You been neckin’ with other girls behind my back?"

Considering the sheer amount of subterfuge and effort it took him to get into her bed each time, he didn’t think this question was worth answering. He gave her a look; she giggled and sat down next to him, wrapping her arms around him.

"All this over a pudding recipe," he sighed, rubbing his nose into that soft stretch of skin where her shoulder met her neck.

"It’s alright, though, isn’t it?"

"Hm?"

"Sneaking around." Rose gasped as he kissed her collarbone. Her cheeks were a little flushed, and her voice went shy and sweet. "It’s a bit… exciting, isn’t it?"

He untucked the ends of her towel and said, with great gusto, “Absolutely.”


	10. The One With Torchwood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #25 - Librarian/Avid Reader AU, but actually Archivist/Torchwood Agent AU, but actually Doctor Martha Jones/Torchwood Agent Smith AU???

The day the Doctor transferred to Torchwood One was the day everything changed, in Dr. Martha Jone’s opinion.

"This is the Doctor. He’s our newest team member, an archivist on loan to us from Torchwood Two. He’s very knowledgable, I want you to use him at every possible opportunity-" Director Tyler ignored the leer that Jack Harkness gave the tall, blue-suited man and nodded at his daughter. "Rose, bring the Doctor up to speed on the case you’re working on - he has full security clearance and his assistance will be invaluable."

The Doctor smiled at Rose Tyler, who gave him a small nod in return. She was all business all the time and merely said, “I’ll swing by to see you at 16 hours.” 

She turned and left. Jack shrugged, saluted, and followed her out.

"I’m Dr. Martha Jones," said Martha, introducing herself. "Medical Doctor, that is. Been filling in as librarian, but it’s not my speciality. Glad to hand it off to you, if I’m honest."

"Lovely to meet you, Martha Jones."

She thought two things right off the bat: that his smile was really very nice, and that he wouldn’t last long at Torchwood.

 

* * *

 

The Doctor was a very cheerful, very verbose man. He had a big gob and admitted to the fact, but it was actually rather pleasant to spend time with someone who filled the air with cheerful banter. He was also a bit of a genius, so Martha enjoyed listening.

She wouldn’t lie and say there wasn’t a certain amount of flirting, either. God, he was a flirt. Sometimes she couldn’t tell if it was intentional - did he really think she was a star, or was he just buttering her up so she’d say yes to a drink after work? Except the drinks part never happened, because he never asked, and so they went on jokingly teasing one another. He seemed to enjoy it when she challenged him and looked proud when he succeeded in impressing her.

Martha couldn’t figure out if it was taboo to date coworkers - others did it, Torchwood was rife with inter-office romance, but all of it was kept on the down-low. Well, mostly. Jack didn’t seem to care a whit if everyone knew he was sleeping with Ianto in the supply closets, but Jack was something else entirely.

She was about to ask the Doctor if he might fancy grabbing something to eat once they finished up the medical records section of the Archives when two new arrivals interrupted her before she could get the words out.

"Need everything you’ve got on Weevils," said Rose Tyler. Her partner lingered by the door, watching as Martha sat back down with a sigh.

Agent Tyler was a seasoned agent, tough and resilient, intent on proving herself in the face of whispers of nepotism and favouritism. It was whispered that she’d made a mistake, once, as a rookie, long before Martha was recruited, one that had been nearly catastrophic. Apparently she was still paying for it.

The Doctor beamed. “Right away!”

He escorted her off into a secluded section of the archive, chattering away the entire time. Martha was not asked to join them - she probably wasn’t needed. Weevils were not her area of expertise.

Agent Smith remained.

He had joined Torchwood around the same time as his partner and was a bit of an enigma. He was gruff and quiet, with a sarcastic streak that came out every once in a while. Sometimes he looked at his partner with a certain… familiarity. It was hard to describe. They knew each other well, could read each other’s tells.

It reminded Martha of her relationship with her sister and brother - she knew how to interpret a glance, how to make either of them upset with a single word - it was a class of intimacy that belonged to family, or people who had known each other for a very, very long time.

"Is there something I could help you with?" she asked, just to be polite. He shook his head, so she went home, disappointed and alone.

 

* * *

 

Martha had been wrong about his lasting power, she discovered.

The Doctor had settled in at Torchwood One and was, if rumours were to be believed, potentially planning to stay for good. He liked curating the Archives and was a good asset to the team. The Director was going to pull strings to keep him around.

Though it was no longer her job, Martha still found excuses to linger in the Archives, helping the Doctor where she could. He never refused and always seemed glad to see her.

She eyed the two cups of coffee on his desk. “You shouldn’t drink so much of that stuff. Not good for you.”

He smiled, a bit boyishly, and Martha was loathe to admit to herself that seeing it made her feel a little bit warm inside.

"Doctor’s orders?"

"Yup."

 

* * *

 

Martha thought she’d seen everything, being a Torchwood medic.

Then July came around and the Weevils came to town. Suddenly HQ was overrun. People were dying in every corridor. Screams and gunfire and havoc everywhere.

The agent she found in her emergency ward was bleeding out of a giant hole in his chest.

For one unbearable second she could never take back, could never forgive herself for - Martha froze. The one thing she’d prided herself in medical school for - her nerves of steel, her reflexes, the innate drive to heal and fix and cure, nothing had ever phased her, even once - until this moment.

She stood there with her gloves on, mind blank, terror in every brain cell, until the voices in the corridor began shouting, and the Doctor’s especially, she’d never heard him sound so angry - _She’s hurt! She- Get out of my way! Where’s Dr. Jones?! -_

Then Martha was moving, working, saving a life. The adrenaline rush had never hit her so hard - she never even glanced at the agent’s face. The Doctor burst into the room at some point, carrying another injured body, but Martha couldn’t afford to be distracted from her own patient. Her focus carried her through the awful two consecutive days of emergency surgeries.

Blood, _everywhere_.

She thanked whatever gods existed that she worked for an intelligence agency that specialised in accumulating alien technology, including state-of-the-art medical equipment. The devastation, otherwise, was unthinkable.

 

* * *

 

Two weeks later Martha received flowers - carefully placed on her desk - but she was too ashamed to keep them there.

 

* * *

 

Peaceful times reigned for a little while, after that “bump in the road”, as the higher-ups put it. The Weevil infestation was behind them now, and so they had to move on. It was easier said than done. Martha still had nightmares.

Someone suggested that they all go out together to build team camaraderie and bond. It was better than sitting around thinking about how hell had almost descended upon them, so they did. Cardiff’s night life was not exactly vibrant, not at 5 in the morning, but Jack managed to find a dirty hole in the wall that served alcohol until dawn.

"You two ever bump uglies?" Jack asked, once he’d shoved several drinks down all of them. He looked pointedly at the two people sitting to Martha’s right.

An awkward silence descended. Agent Tyler didn’t answer, but the stiffness in her shoulders was obvious to everyone. Agent Smith merely looked away. He knocked back his drink, as if he hadn’t heard the question.

Martha glanced over to her left, but the Doctor was looking at Agent Tyler, frowning slightly.  

"They totally shagged," Jack told Ianto later, when only Martha was around to hear. "Probably still are."

 

* * *

 

Something weird was going down in Cardiff, but something weird was always going down in Cardiff, so Martha was not particularly fussed about it. Jack kept ranting about the rift and how it was the bane of his existence, so she assumed (rightly), that aliens were probably trying to invade earth again and that she’d better get her medical supplies in order when he and his team returned from their investigative outing.

To her surprise, the member who returned first wasn’t Jack or Ianto. It was Agent Smith. He requested the medical report she’d written for a poor sod several months back who had been unfortunately killed in a case involving honest-to-God alien Succubus. As she fumbled through the mass of paper work on her workspace, he spoke:

"You don’t like pansies."

"Eh?"

She looked up, distracted, and found Agent Smith looking at her desk, which was devoid of any sort of floral arrangement whatsoever.

"Er. Well. Nothing against them," Martha said slowly, confused. "Not particularly fond, either but…"

He didn’t respond, so she handed him the file he needed, and waited until he departed - his expression weirdly taut, as if she’d annoyed him somehow - before shrugging and going back to work.

 

* * *

 

Martha jolted awake at the table, sweat on her brow. Visions of dismembered bodies littering the hallways clouded her vision. She felt a hand on her shoulder, shaking her gently. It belonged to the Doctor.

"Martha," he said, his eyes filled with concern. "You were crying out in your sleep."

She cringed, inwardly, and tried to shake the awful, sickly feeling in her stomach away. Months had gone by. Everyone had healed, had moved on. The warmth of the Doctor’s hand felt like a weight.

"I’m fine," she said, putting a smile on and wishing it wasn’t so shaky. "Just a bad dream. You know."

He nodded and patted her shoulder, advising her to go home. A storm was coming, they’d been told, a bad one, whose effects would be intensified by the rift. She obliged, and fell into a restless sleep in her own bed. The nightmares didn’t go away, etching themselves into her fevered mind as a massive blackout rolled across the city overnight.

 

* * *

 

Martha found them the following morning, in one of the more obscure sections. She almost dropped her much needed coffee when she rounded the corner.

"Shh," said the Doctor, adjusting his glasses, pushing them up where they had fallen down his face. A blonde head was nestled in the crook of his neck, face hidden in his shirt. His coat lay over them both, covering her entirely. Peeking out under it was a small hand, closed around the loosened length of his paisley tie.

Her mouth was dry. “Have you been here all night?”

"Yeah. No choice. The power went out and the archives went on lockdown."

Martha stared at the back of Rose’s head.

"She had a rough assignment," he said, quietly, lowering his voice when the body in his arms shifted the tiniest bit. He brushed the hair off her forehead and she settled again. "Couldn’t sleep. Came here to finish her paperwork."

"Alright," said Martha, feeling more and more like an intruder with each passing second. Tamping down her disappointment, she added: "I’ll come back later, shall I? Let her sleep a little while longer."

"Thanks."

"Anytime."

She forgot about her coffee.

 

* * *

 

Martha wandered out into the hall. She couldn’t get the image out of her head - the look on the Doctor’s face… it had screamed _besotted_.

_There’s other fish in the sea_ , she told herself, repeatedly. This wouldn’t bother her. Not at all. Months of flirting had come to nothing, but so what? She’d known, hadn’t she - if a bloke was interested, he’d have made a move, ages ago. The Doctor had never been interested, then. His interest had lain elsewhere the entire time.

She felt foolish. That was it, really; disappointment and foolishness, nothing more. She wasn’t- it didn’t _hurt_. No, it didn’t. She wouldn’t let it hurt.

Something stupid prickled at the corner of her eye, very stupid, so she swiped it away, erasing it. Head bent, she walked straight into something hard and large - a someone.

"Sorry," she muttered, embarrassed on top of her misery.

It was Agent Smith. He was heading in the direction she’d came from. Great. Regardless of what she thought of Jack’s theories on his history with Rose Tyler, she didn’t want him to accidentally intrude on something that might upset him.

"If you’re going to the archives, don’t bother."

"Wasn’t going to."

"Good. ‘Scuse me."

She walked around him, towards the vending machine at the end of the hall, pretending she’d been going there all along.

"You okay?"

The question was so gruffly asked, and sounded so reluctant, Martha almost didn’t stop. For some reason she did, though, turning around to spew excuses in his general direction. But the serious expression he leveled at her wasn’t casual or mean-spirited at all… and she understood that he was genuinely asking after her well-being. She was so astonished she didn’t know how to respond.  

"I’m fine," she said, at length, sounding way more crabby than she’d intended. "I just wanted a drink. But they don’t have the one I like."

It was a lie.

Agent Smith walked past her. He looked at the very limited options on the vending machine before pressing a button. A can rolled noisily into the opening. Picking it up, he handed it to her.

"What’s this for?"

It came out rather rude, but she’d had a rough morning.

He regarded her with a new expression, one she’d never seen before on his face. It was hesitance, mixed with discomfiture. His words came out clumsily, more words than she’d ever heard him string together in one sentence before.

"Never said thank you, did I? And you definitely don’t like pansies. Sorry about that. Should’ve asked before I sent them."

For the second time that morning, Martha was speechless. “Agent Smith, you-“

"My name’s Mickey," he said, voice husky and wine-deep. "Call me Mickey."


	11. The One With Online Dating

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #9 - Meeting Online AU. Crack warning.

Something weird was going on.

Halfway through the day, the Doctor started receiving a lot of messages.

Odd… ones.

He scrolled through his inbox, perplexed. As he read each one, he became increasingly alarmed.

_so how much bigger is it on the inside?_

_I think I need to work on my anatomy, Doc ;) ;)_

_Hi biggerontheinside, great username! Care to show me in person?_

"What the hell?"

* * *

 

"I can explain."

He couldn’t hold back the sarcasm. “Oh, can you? Please do. I’d really like to hear it.”

"I just wanted to help," said Jack, shrugging. "You seemed… lonely."

He was gobsmacked. “And you chose to do it by creating a terrible profile for me on an online dating website?” He pointed at the screen. “My profile picture! It’s cropped at the waist! What’s the matter with you?”

Jack coughed to cover what sounded suspiciously like ‘just advertising the goods’ and ignored the brief ‘you’re-an-idiot’ look that Donna gave him before she turned her attention back to their mutual friend and project.

The Doctor started reading aloud. “Hi! I’m a thirty-something well-traveled medical professional with an overdeveloped intellect looking for a loving connection with a willowy, blonde, fun-loving, sexually adventurous, flexible and nubile lady who’s willing to play nurse to my Doctor. _Gingers need not apply._ ”

Donna punched Jack in the arm. Hard. “Ow!”

"Delete it," commanded the Doctor, in the same tone of voice he used on his patients, who typically ranged between the ages of two and twelve.

Jack pouted. “But I worked hard on that!”

"Did you know about this?"

"No!"

"She’s lying, I told her I was going to set a profile up for you last week-"

"Donna!"

"I swear I didn’t know he would actually go through with it!"

Donna looked annoyed, which only made the Doctor more annoyed, on top of how annoyed he already was. Given the circumstances he felt that he ought to hold solitary rights to annoyance. He glared at Jack.

"Delete it," he said again.

"Give it a chaaaaance!" Jack hedged, "You never know-"

A chime came from the laptop, interrupting him mid-sentence, which was probably for the best as the Doctor was quite close to punching him on the nose, no matter what he said. An email notification on the Doctor’s profile popped up. Jack lunged for the computer and clicked on it, opening the new message before anyone could stop him.

_[censored image]_

"Holy mother of God," said Jack, in awe.

"DELETE IT!" shouted the Doctor, going bright red in the face. 

 

* * *

 

Jack wouldn’t stop laughing.

Three days later, he was still laughing. Donna had declared herself innocent and wisely washed her hands of the situation. The Doctor was going to have to overcome his aversion to looking at the bloody website - he was filled with such _searing embarrassment_ every time he even so much as thought about typing out the URL into his search bar - and take control of the account.

"You’re a stud, Doc. Damn if I’d known how easy it was to hook ‘em I’d have made one of these for myself ages ago."

"Ianto would kill you."

"He’d make a sockpuppet account and hit on me."

Well. Yes, probably, but that wasn’t the bloody point-

"This one’s from a nurse! Oooh, she sounds good! _Hello, there. I’m a young nurse, brunette, does yoga and is VERY bendy. Perhaps we should meet up to bone up on our anatomy_.”

"Will you bloody quit it?"

_"WELL HELLO THERE DOCTOR! I’M A MATURE, EXCITING LADY LOOKING FOR A GOOD TIME WITH A FUN LAD, AND YOU SEEM EXACTLY LIKE WHAT I’M LOOKING FOR. PS. I HAVE THIS RASH ON MY THIGH, DO YOU MIND TAKING A LOOK AT IT IF I GIVE YOU MY ADDY?"_

"Christ, Jack, why are you shouting?!"

"She typed it all out in capitals. That’s what it means. It’s shouting. Oh, oh- here’s another good one: _Hello, Doctor…I’m a voluptuous lady in need of a home visit from a caring professional with a dirty streak. I’ll be happy to show you what you’ve been missing with gingers. Rawr._ ”

"Shut up," the Doctor hissed.

"You’re _such_ a stud.”

"Give me that." He snatched the laptop away. "I’m changing the password."

"Aw, man, dude, I just want to help you find a love connection!"

"Next time you get into a bar fight don’t come to me for stitches. You can line up at the A&E like everyone else."

"Aww, c’mon! Don’t be like that!"

 

* * *

 

Ultimately it was his colleague, Martha, the only rational, sane person he knew, who gave him the solution to his problem.

Revenge.

"It’s simple, Doctor. Find the worst person on there, absolutely the last person you’d ever go for, and ask them out."

"Martha… that’s _brilliant_.”

"I know. I speak from experience."

 

* * *

 

He perused the profiles on _My Cup Of Tea™_ for about an hour, alternating between snickering and cringing, before finding one that seemed to have potential.

"Single mum, but not the fun sort. Currently living with son and ten ginger cats, all of whom are more interesting than people. Looking for someone not afraid of dull nights, dander, or childhood illnesses."

Perfect. That would rile Jack up. Even better if it was a fake.

He thought carefully, before sending a polite _Hello. Are you free to chat?_

The reply was almost immediate.

**yeah. r u really a Doctor?**

_Yes, actually._

**what kind?**

_Pediatrician._

**oh thank god**

He frowned at his phone. The next message came in a flurry, heavily abbreviated, and it took him several rereads to comprehend.

**symptms r fussy, cryn, wont/cant sleep, sl fvr, kps falln ovr???**

_Sounds like an ear infection, especially if there’s a fever. Trouble with balance another big flag - how old? Not infant?_

**almost 4 but wont say whats wrong just clingy  
**

_Any discharge?_

**no, gd or bad???**

_Good. Mild infection, or early stages. Are you in London?_

**yeah why**

_Easier to find a 24 hour pharmacy. Ask for…._

 

* * *

 

He woke up the following morning to a message from **dullmum42** in his inbox.

**THANK YOU! :) :) :)**

_You’re welcome!_

**poor darling still feeling poorly. i’ll give him some mashed fruit, he likes that. pears i reckon.**

_No! Not pears!_

**why not?**

_I hate pears!_

 

* * *

 

**you’re different from your profile**

_Thank you very much!_

**haha you didn’t write it yourself?**

_Lord, no. Some friends of mine felt I was lonely and decided I needed to make a love connection over the internet._

**how lovely of them**

_You?_

**same situation, i’m afraid :P**

_Ahhh. I suppose they mean well. I’m not lonely, though._

**i’m sure you’re not**

_Still. It’s nice to make new friends._

**:)**

 

* * *

 

_Pick a number between 1 and 5._

**3**

_Oh, zombies behind door three, I’m dead. Tyvm._

**sorry!**

_No worries! I have a ‘regeneration’ card I’ve come back to life. Higher level too._

**seems like cheating if you ask me**

_Oh it totally is. Isn’t it fantastic?_

**m used to make me play games w/ him and always got mad if i used a revive code**

_M?_

**ex bf**

_Oh… not in the picture anymore?_

**wouldn’t be on this site if he was. what d’you take me for :p**

_His loss._

**:) btw tony says thank you!**

_Tony?_

**ear infection all gone :)**

_Ohhhh, good! That’s brilliant!_

 

* * *

 

**[Photo of Roses]**

_What’s this? Someone sent you flowers? Sorry to say it wasn’t me._

**it’s a hint**

_A hint?_

**something u wanted to know**

_What?_

_What??_

_C’mon, tell me!_

 

* * *

 

**figure it out yet?**

_No. Give me another hint._

**no way.**

_Fine, fine. How’s Tony today?_

**doing brill! ty**

_Marvelous. Did he have a good time at his birthday party?_

**he’s still bouncing about hyper off it. Shan’t come down for weeks!**

_Seems like he’s made a full recovery. Are you a proud Mummy?_

**you know, most men would’ve run at the first mention of a kid. single mums have it hard on the dating scene**

_I’m of the opinion that all single mums are heroes who don’t get enough credit for what they go through._

He waited, almost an hour, before her reply came.

**have something to confess to you…**

 

* * *

 

Several weeks later, the Doctor decided it was time to put his plan into motion.

"Just a mo," he said, holding up a finger in the middle of Jack’s story, whipping out his buzzing mobile from his trouser pocket.

"What is that?"

"An app. For the site. It’s easier to chat this way. I get the notifications instantly on my phone."

Donna and Jack exchanged looks.

"Who are you talking to?"

"I told you about her, didn’t I?"

"Dullmum42?"

"Yep."

"It’s been three weeks! You’re still talking to her?"

"Yeah." The Doctor lifted one eyebrow. "Is that a problem?"

"No," said Donna, her face carefully free of any emotion. She glanced at Jack out of the corner of her eye. He sat up slightly, looking put-upon.

"What?" demanded the Doctor.

"She’s… a bit older than you, isn’t she?"

"So what?"

"Well, nothing," Jack admitted. Everyone at the table knew fully well he himself had engaged with many women - men - almost twice his own age. "Experience is good. But she’s…"

"A single mum. Is that it? I’m a pediatrician. I love children."

"It’s the cats!" Donna blurted out. "She’s got ten cats, Doctor! You’re allergic to cats!"

He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.”

Donna seemed staggered by this, but he ignored it and showed them the photo of roses she’d sent him. “What do you think this means?”

"Uh… she has a really bad camera on her phone?"

The Doctor sighed. “If you’re not going to be supportive, I’m sorry I brought it up in the first place. Might I remind you that it was your idea to sign me up? _You_ wanted me to give it a real chance, and now that I have, you’re upset I picked someone who is kind and funny and caring, even if she isn’t society’s idea of young and hot-“

Jack raised both hands in a surrendering motion. “Alright, alright, I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

He waited until they’d had several more drinks before announcing, “I’m going to meet her. I think we made a real connection.”

 

* * *

 

[New message from **biggerontheinsidetoo.** Add to friends list?]

_Hey its me!_

**hi… what’s up?**

_My account got hacked :( so I made a new one. Hence the new moniker._

**oic**

_I’ve been thinking_

**have you? how unusual**

_haha. You know we’ve been chatting for a while now._

**a few weeks yeah**

_Long time to go for two people who clearly feel attracted to each other to not meet one another doncha think?_

**hmm**

_Whadya reckon? Tuesday night, 8pm?_

 

* * *

 

"You must be John. I’m _so pleased_ to meet you!”

The woman who stopped at the table by the window, wearing a single red rose tucked behind her ear, smiled widely. She was… not unattractive, and not nearly as old as he’d believed. She was probably pushing early forties, still fairly fit, with bottle blonde hair that was styled in a manner more befitting to a twenty-year-old about to hit the nightclubs than a single mum going on a blind date. Her outfit, too… he gave her a quick, professional once-over, taking in the tight spandex dress studded with rhinestones that stopped mid-thigh, painful looking heels that she could barely walk in, and some frankly impressive cleavage (that was plus, at least).

"Good evening," he said, getting up to pull out her chair for her.

"Ooh," she said, fluttering her eyelashes. "How posh. Ta."

Her perfume was overwhelmingly sweet and sickly, a nauseating combination of vanilla and violets. It was pungent, too, as if she’d doused herself in a bathtub full of the stuff before heading out. He held his breath until he sat down again, but the stench was pervasive and kept getting up his nostrils.

Jack forced himself to smile. “You’re far more gorgeous in person than I ever imagined,” he said smoothly.

She tittered again. “Oh, aren’t you a sweetheart! Easy on the eyes, too, aren’t you? And American! You never mentioned you weren’t a local!”

Oh, shit. He’d forgotten about that. “Ah…. well, it never came up.”

"S’pose not."

"Did you have trouble finding a babysitter? I know this was very last-minute."

"Eh? Oh, no, it was fine."

"Good, I’m glad."

"So, John. Tell me more about yourself. I want to know everything by the time this date is over. We are going to pour our souls out to each other, tonight! You and I!"

"Oh… we are… well… okay… I’m a Doctor. I work in London. I’m… American." He racked his brains, trying to recall what the Doctor had said about **dullmum42** 's interests. “I… like cats!”

She made a face. “Really?”

He blurted out, before he could stop himself, “I thought you were a cat lady!”

She tittered. “Oh no, I _hate_ the beasts. I just put that on my profile because it keeps the bad men away.”

"The… what?"

"Oh, you know the type."

"Um… do I?"

"Excuse me," said a voice, cutting into their conversation. It belonged to one of the restaurant staff, a young blonde, someone whom Jack wistfully thought should have been the woman sitting before him. "Ma’am, you forgot this in the ladies’."

"Oh yes, thank you so much! Tony! Gosh, where is my head tonight? Must be all the excitement of meeting you at last, Doctor!" She winked at Jack, who was too stunned to react. He could barely comprehend the scene unfolding before him.

The waitress pushed a pram towards their table. There was a child inside it. A child who was definitely way too big to fit. He didn’t look too happy about it and seemed ready to burst into a screaming fit at any minute.

Fortunately his mum appeared to realise this and hurried to retrieve the pram. She unbuckled him, picked him up and set him on the floor, nudging him towards her date.

"Say hello, Tony! I’m so glad you two finally get to meet each other! This is the Doctor, sweetheart, he’s going to be your new daddy!"

"Oh my god," said Jack.

 

* * *

 

Rose Tyler came out from the ladies’ loo, looking very blonde and nubile and gorgeous in a pink dress, very different from the head-to-toe black outfit uncannily similar to that of the servers she’d been wearing earlier. She gave him a big hello kiss and sat down with an equally big smile.

"How’d mum do?"

"Bafta-worthy," the Doctor said fervently. "Tell Jackie I’ll give Tony all the medical care he might ever need for the rest of his life, free of charge-"

"Oh, she’ll hold you to that," said Rose, giggling. "She had a laugh, though! Did you see his face when Tony came out?"

"Stroke of genius."

"Almost blew my cover, I wanted to laugh so badly. It’s too bad we couldn’t do the same to Shireen, it’d serve her right for pranking me."

"You know, if she hadn’t signed you up, I wouldn’t have met you." He reached over the table to take her hand. "So technically they _did_ bring us together. I’m very grateful in that regard.”

"Shall we ring up your friend and tell him the truth, then?"

"Weeeell. I reckon we’d better let Jackie ask him to come over so Tony can play with his new Daddy before the wedding a few more times before we let him off the hook, don’t you?"


	12. The One With Five Years

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #40 - Exes Meeting Again After Not Seeing Each Other For Years AU  
> #6 - Coffee Shop AU

_**June, 2010** _

"I’ll see you later," she says.

"Not if I see you first," he replies.

And so they part ways, each off to a new adventure.

 

* * *

 

In the airport he lingers and tries to commit the feeling to memory. He rubs the little red marks on his palm, where her hand held his own, a constant companion. _Five years._ He unclenches each finger from his fist, counting them.

He’ll keep his word.

_In exactly five years, on this day, no matter what, we’ll meet back here at this coffee shop. Do you promise?_

_I do._

.

* * *

 

They promise not to call each other. It’s expensive and it makes things harder. Distance and time ought to soothe the little piece of him that seems to be missing, but that inconsequential little cog in the wheel turns out to be quite the opposite, in fact.

India has a surplus of coffee shops, including Starbucks, and on a desperate morning he goes into one, orders a latte. The smell is different, slightly, but it’s the same. It triggers a slew of memories. His hand itches to tie on an apron and he can imagine the sound of Donna calling out orders to him, hear the hiss of the espresso machine and the smell of dark roast coffee beans. The robotic shuffle of smaller feet, rushing into the back room, half-asleep, late again, spewing apologies and looking sheepish. He remembers teasing her until she blushes, and wondering aloud why someone who hates mornings would want to work morning shifts at a coffee shop.

It’s barely eight months into the first year and he has a sudden, excruciating moment of weakness.

She doesn’t answer. It goes straight to voice mail so he leaves a message. He’s not sure what to say, and what does come out seems awkward and unimportant.

_Hi. Just calling from Mumbai. It’s bloody hot here and I’ve been laughed at for wearing the wrong clothes all week. Having a great time._

A new friend offers him a trip through Himachal; seven nights through oak, blue pine, spruce, fir and Deodar forest and up mountain pastures over the Bashleo Pass. It’s worth the trek: the panoramic view of the Himalayas is amazing.

When he gets back to a city, to a wi-fi connection, he finds an email dated two weeks back. It’s from her.

_You show off.  It’s wet and rainy here._

Email’s cheaper anyway, he decides.

 

* * *

 

Macchu Picchu is beautiful.

His time spent in the Noble’s coffee shop seems like a lifetime ago. Working after school, clearing tables, offering a job to a mouthy blonde who can’t afford to spend her tiny allowance on coffee anyway - all of it feels like it happened to someone else. He’d been killing time, back then. Counting down the days until he turned 18 and came into his inheritance.

_No parents, no family, no rules, no obligations, no one to lie to or hurt._

_Sounds lonely._

_Well. Maybe. But it’s freedom, too, and that’s what I’ve got planned. I’m going to see everything. As much as I can. Sleep under the stars, climb mountains, dive into the sea. Nothing to hold me back, y’see? I can go anywhere. S’not a bad life._

_(He doesn’t say:_ it’d be better with two _, but he thinks it. And as he teaches her how to clean the latte machine properly so Donna doesn’t have a fit later on, he can picture her so clearly in the future he’s drawn, her blonde head gleaming in the sunlight of Macchu Picchu.)_

 

* * *

 

The third year’s a lot easier. He doesn’t miss home anymore. He doesn’t even drink coffee for most of it, which is amazing.

There are other girls. He won’t lie about that. They don’t stick - just something about him, he assumes, some fundamental flaw in his design that attracts and deflects friends and lovers alike. No one has got under his skin, though, not really.

Someone did, once. Someone somehow uncovered him, with big toothy smiles and compassionate eyes and eagerness and youth and kindness.

Other people have touched him, too, over the years - strangers who saw past the facade, who knew he had a lonely soul, strangers who could have been friends and even soul mates. But perhaps they came at the wrong time.

Timing is everything, he’s learned.

_You’re too young to make this kind of commitment._

_I know. Mum keeps tellin’ me. So are you, y’know._

_I’m not asking you to come with me._

_I know you’re not. I can’t afford it. I can’t even afford school. For the record, though-_

_Yeah?_

_I’d say yes._

 

* * *

 

(He hears through the grapevine that she’s moved to America, that her mother remarried, and that she has a little brother now. He briefly considers visiting the United States, he’s never been, but it feels like cheating. Which is silly, of course - she’s not waiting for him. She’s living her life, as she should, and he doesn’t know if he ought to disturb her. )

 

* * *

 

He finds himself closer to home, back to Europe, but he doesn’t set foot on British soil at all. There’s so much ground to cover, so much to see… it’s impossible. The wanderlust ignited in his chest is overwhelming and consumes his every step, directing him through sleepless nights and endless days of exploration.

Barcelona enchants him. A street dog with a ragged nose torn in a fight bites him when he commits an act of kindness and tries to feed it. His wound becomes infected, he spends days in a hospital, getting shots of antibiotics and getting scolded by the nurses. One of them is training to be a doctor and she’s pretty and ambitious and has a crush on him.

_You have someone at home?_

He’s not sure how to answer: does he? He hasn’t thought about it for a long time now. He’s been travelling on his own, because it’s easier that way: he can pick up and leave at a whim, without worrying about someone else.

 _No,_ he says.

_Everyone has someone at home._

_That’s probably true_ , he reflects, and gives her a charming grin. _If you’ve got a home. I’m a wanderer._

 

* * *

 

He wanders and wanders and wanders. _You’ve got an itchy foot_ , a fortune teller says, and he laughs, because it’s the most obvious thing anyone could ever say to him. _That I do_ , he agrees.

_But you’re tired, too. Maybe it’s time to go home._

_You’ll forget_ , someone else said, once, in the distant past. _You’ll go off and backpack across Europe and meet loads of pretty girls. You won’t even remember this one’s name._

 _Growing up is letting go_ , said another.

He doesn’t, though. He doesn’t love, easily, not him. He’s wounded and tough and good at hiding it but she saw through the armor and liked him anyway. So he forces himself to remember everything: the feel of her hand, the curve of her shoulder, the exact hue of her top. He won’t forget.

 

* * *

 

**_June, 2015_ **

He books his flight back to London two months in advance. It’s scheduled to arrive two days before, and gives him just enough time to say goodbye to the friends he’s made in Thailand before moving onto other regions of Asia.

Things happen, though, of course they do. There’s a death in the family hosting his home-stay, and as a courtesy, he departs as soon as the funeral is held, giving them space to mourn. A tsunami follows, drenching the country side, starting landslides and flash floods and drenching the route he means to take back to civilization. He makes alternative plans, but they fall through as well.

Suddenly two months of advance planning seems inadequate. He barely scrapes by, taking buses and rental cars until he finally gets on a plane.

The airport is packed. There’s another storm, flights get cancelled and people are trapped with nowhere to go. There are no taxis available, no buses, nothing until 5 in the morning when he’s half-dead on his feet, wondering why climbing mountains was never so exhausting as waiting for transportation. He could’ve walked back by now.

It’s almost midnight by the time he arrives.

Donna’s closed up shop hours ago. He bangs on the glass front until she opens up and throws her arms around him even though he’s soaking wet. Her arms are warm and familiar and he’s got that homesick feeling, the one he never admits to, and it’s ridiculous because he is, as far as he is able to be, _at home_. The smell of coffee confirms it. For a second everything is so overwhelmingly _right_ , in this _exact_ spot, this _exact_ place, and he can’t quite remember why he ever thought it wasn’t. There’s just one thing missing.

Then Donna says, with a disappointed voice, “Rose was here! You missed her!”

He drops his bags and curses, loudly, shoving wet hair off his face.

_Do you promise?_

_I do._

He asks, frantically, mind racing for recourse, for any kind of chance, “Did she leave her number? Did she say where she was staying?”

"God, I’m sorry. I meant to ask, but I was short-staffed today and it was so busy, and…" His friend shakes her head. "She sat in the corner all day, waiting for you…"

He pleads, “Donna, c’mon, think! Hotel name. Anything? Anything at all?”

Donna smiles. He feels the hairs on the back of his neck rise on their own as her gaze slips from his face to the wet, empty street behind him.

"Why don’t you ask her yourself?"


	13. The One With The Reaper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #41 - Ghost/Living Person AU (But actually Grim Reaper/Not Supposed To Be Dead Person AU)

Annual review had come early, it seemed.

"You’re one soul away from your quota. _Still._ It’s been _twenty_ years.”

The unembodied voice seemed to come from the ceiling, but he knew that was an illusion. There was no up. There was only down, and down went reaaaaaally far down, the pits of hell down, and Satan was projecting, which meant he was _pissed_.

"It’s not that difficult," continued the voice, as if it were speaking to a very small, or perhaps very dumb child, "You serve your time and reap a thousand souls, and then you go back to the land of the living anew. What’s your problem?"

One thousand souls. He’d been slacking. It was just _hard_. People always had excuses and sob stories and he was a soft touch when it came to that sort of thing. Tears undid him. He let them off easy, got them off on technicalities. He was going to be a grim reaper for centuries yet at this rate. His friends covered for him, taking up the slack - Romana was a stickler, and the Master practically a psychopath who kept deferring his reinstatement to the land of flesh and blood because he _enjoyed_ reaping, and frankly, no one wanted that guy running around on earth wreaking havoc among the living anyway.

Still, he knew he was pushing it.

He couldn’t even remember what he’d done to deserve this. It was so long ago, that last life. Apparently he’d been in some kind of war, a really bad one, and he’d done bad things. Killed people. So he was punished by… being forced to kill more people. Well. He didn’t _kill_ them so much as gathered their souls and corralled them into the various levels of Hell or sent them back on the rare occasion. 

"Where were you on Friday afternoon?"

He racked his brain, trying to remember. Stuff like that was difficult, when you lived in hell and everything was all brimstone and paperwork and people trying to evade what was coming to them. He could barely remember what he’d done this morning, let alone last week.

"I was… helping a friend."

"You were helping a friend." Pause. "Twenty souls, in an explosion in the basement of a department store in London, England. Nineteen safely delivered to their respective circles - ten to heaven, two back to earth, seven to serve time in various levels. One lost in Limbo."

_Uh oh._

The ceiling vibrated, in a manner that was VERY concerning. If he weren’t already dead he’d be seriously worried it’d collapse and kill him again.

"A nineteen year old girl who wasn’t supposed to die is lost. You didn’t respond to the emergency alarm."

He sucked in a breath, guilt twinging at the back of his neck like a noose waiting to tighten. He rubbed his neck and stared at his shoe.

"If you’d done your job properly," the boss thundered, in his Angry Satan Voice, "You’d be reincarnated by now. I’ll tell you something: you didn’t just send that girl to hell by accident. You _caused_ it.”

His head snapped up. “What are you talking about?”

"Exactly what I said. Mannequins were - would have been - involved. What do you have to say to that?"

"Uh-"

The voice lost patience. It roared, “What are you waiting for? Go find her!”

He ran as fast as his unearthly Chucks would take him.

 

* * *

 

It took about two earth days to find the missing soul. Her name was Rose Tyler. She was just a kid in a pink hoodie, looking lost and lonely in that way kids her age were so good at. He found her sitting on a rock inside Limbo, a dark misty in-between that did no favours for those with gout or people who had hair that was affected by humidity. Fortunately he was not one of them, but Rose Tyler most definitely was. Maybe that was why she was so glum?

"Hello," he said, fading into existence before her, which was a very impressive trick that usually made people scream or ask him to do it again (if they were little people, usually. He did so hate it when they were little people.)

"Jesus Christ!" she shrieked, jumping about a foot into the air.

"Hey, hey, not here," he chided. "Gets them all riled up."

She stared, eyes widening. “Who are you?”

"Your guide through the Underworld. Would’ve thought the hood and cape would give it away. Don’t you watch telly?"

He watched as she took in his uniform. “You were supposed to wait by the gates, not wander into Limbo by yourself. That’s a big no-no.”

"So I’m really dead, then?"

"Uh huh." He gripped his staff, it was a good prop for making a fancy impression, but she didn’t seem to be affected by it. "Well, no. Technically you’re in a coma. Your soul has left your body but it’s still tethered, you can still go back. I’m here to help you with that."

"No!" she said, face darkening, and before he knew what she was about, she shoved him, hard, and took off while he was on the misty ground, astonished and appalled.

_What the… Heaven?_

 

* * *

 

He decided to use the element of surprise and appeared again, suddenly, the very next day. In front of her, of course, but a safe distance away.

She seemed startled for a minute, and then looked decidedly unhappy to see him. Lovely.

"Oh. You again."

"Yeah, me again," he said, a little bit offended. No respect for authority, this one. Normally he liked that, but it was a bit annoying how she seemed totally unafraid of him. "The Grim Reaper."

"Yeah," she said. "Sorry about pushin’ you, earlier. I overreacted. Was rude of me. I apologize."

"I’ll say. Apology accepted."

"I’m just confused, that’s all."

"I’m sure this is a very confusing time for you," he said politely. "But we really must get going."

"Goin’ where?"

"Fishing," he said, and then rolled his eyes. "Back to your corporeal body, obviously. Come on."

"Ta, but no ta," she said. "I quite like it here, actually. Fancy stayin’, if you don’t mind."

"Uhhh, yeah, not gonna happen."

"Why not?"

"Look, I get it. This business of living and dying, it’s messy. I like it here, too. Being a reaper is alright. And no, you can’t become one." _I don’t need the competition_ , he thought. “It takes skill and training and you have to have a calling for it.” Or good networking skills.

"Never said I wanted to be one," she retorted glumly. "Just don’t wanna go back."

"You have to. You’re not even supposed to be dead!"

"I know. Heard them say it was a mistake."

"Who?"

"Dunno. Someone. Big voice, made everything shake all crazy-like. It said someone made a mistake, and got me killed even though I wasn’t supposed to be, and they were going to send him over to find me."

"Ah." His eyes slid away, evasively.

"It was you, wasn’t it? You screwed up, didn’t you?"

"Just a little," he admitted. "But I’m here now, to fix it!"

She scowled at him.

"Cheer up. You’re not dead yet and I’m here to bring you home!"

She shrugged, her anger suddenly melting away into melancholy. A strand of wispy blonde hair fell over her eyes. “Whatever. Not fussed, really. Not much to go back to.”

"What are you talking about?"

"Didn’t have a great life, anyway. No school, no A Levels and no job, either, now it’s been blown up an’ all."

He winced, thinking _mannequins_ , and wondered what that was all about, and knew that he’d probably never know.

"There’s other things to live for," he said, casually.

"Like what?"

"Lots of things," he replied, uneasily. The problem was he couldn’t really think of anything either. This wasn’t usually how it went. Most of the time it was the other way around: people convinced _him_ to let them live.

Her expression was sullen, very teenager, and he remembered that was what she technically was - bloody young. Again the guilt nagged at him, this time with the added bonus of having a face to put to the name. 

_Rose Tyler._ He wondered, _who are you? What could you be?_

"Just a minute," he said, holding up a finger and fading out.

 

* * *

 

"She doesn’t want to go back," he said to the ceiling.

The ceiling shook. “Why?”

"She’s got her reasons. I don’t think I can force her."

"Tell her it was your mistake."

Satan was a bit of a jerk, really. It wasn’t just reputation, that was for sure. “She knows.”

"If she still wants to be reaped, then so be it. Lucky you." Satan could be distinctly cool, too. Frigid, even. "Fills your quota. Frankly I’ll be glad to be rid of you."

"You don’t have to be so rude about it," he grumbled, and went back.

 

* * *

 

Single mum family, London estates, school drop out, shop girl. Rose Tyler, in a nutshell. She said, “My life flashed through my eyes and I realised, I’ve done nothin’. Nothin’ at all. You know?”

"You’re barely nineteen," he said reasonably, wondering when and how this had become a therapy session. "You’re just starting out. Give it some time before you write it all off, come on!"

"I’m gonna be a shop girl forever. It’s all I’m good for. Can’t do anything else."

"Have you tried?"

"Don’t have qualification."

"Can’t you get them?"

"S’not that easy."

He wanted to tell her nothing ever was, but decided she would find it patronizing. He didn’t want to antagonize her.

"Maybe you’re just a late bloomer?"

She shook her head.

"A pretty girl like you shouldn’t be down here," he tried a different tactic. "You should be living. Decomposition isn’t nice, at all. Trust me on this."

It didn’t work. She just sighed, deeply, and looked away.

 

* * *

 

Another day, another tactic: guilt. He slyly slid into existence, tapping her on the shoulder. She turned to look at him and for a moment he felt weirdly naked, as if his robes weren’t there, or maybe she could see through them. That wasn’t possible, though. No one could see through Reaper robes, not even him, which meant he hadn’t looked at himself for about… nine hundred years?

_Focus_ , he told himself.

"You know what happens if you don’t go back, Rose Tyler?"

She stuck her bottom lip out, _so mature_. “What?”

"Your death sends your mother into a spiral of depression and self-blame due to loneliness and the stress of living alone-"

"-Doubt it. She’s perfectly happy with Howard."

"-as a result she becomes addicted to late-night shopping telly and goes bankrupt, losing her home and job. She refuses help from friends or family and becomes a street beggar-"

Her face twitched but she didn’t respond, so he went on, “Your boyfriend gets accused of blowing up Henrik’s as part of a revenge plot, he suspected you were cheating-“

"That doesn’t make any sense at all," she scoffed. "Try again."

"Your cousin Mo comes to your funeral, a storm hits on the way home, she catches pneumonia and becomes an invalid for the rest of her life."

"I hate Cousin Mo."

"The stray you’d been feeding every other night dies of starvation. No one else cares."

"You’re sick."

"I’m kind of enjoying it. This is all very Charles Dickens. Met him, you know. He was very interested in Limbo. Didn’t want to leave, either, just like you."

"Whatever."

"Hey. Attitude."

"Can you just get on with it?"

"Oh, are you busy? Sorry. I thought you didn’t have anything planned except an eternity of sitting on that rock over there staring at your shoes."

"Just bored of your name dropping, is all." Her nose was in the air the rest of the way. He was surprised she didn’t trip and fall flat on her face.

"Alright," he said, after a while, after getting absolutely nowhere with her. He’d met granite rockfaces who wore down faster. "You hang out there, then. I’m going for my lunch break. I’ll be back."

"You eat lunch?" she asked, looking more interested in this bit of information than she had been in everything else he’d told her. Humans were so weird.

"Usually get a bagel," he said, before fading out.

 

* * *

 

When he returned, she was throwing rocks into the hole in the trunk of a giant, black, rotting tree. The roots and the twisted branches were shrouded in mist. He knew for a fact the hole was a gateway to a section of Hell reserved for people who didn’t cover their mouths when they sneezed on public transit. He transitioned in behind her and waited for her to turn around. She made a little screaming noise that made him feel awesome, and this time he was prepared, he took three rapid dancing steps back before she could shove him. Just because he was a Reaper didn’t mean he couldn’t be cautious.

She threw him a withering look, and abruptly demanded, “Where do people go when they die?”

He raised an eyebrow. _You’re living it, kid._ He said, “Some go to Heaven, some go to Hell, some become Reapers, some go back to Earth. The first two are self-explanatory, I expect you can work it out. The other two are more complicated, and no, I’m not gonna explain, because it’s classified info.”

She made a face. “What if someone died before their time? Like me? In an accident? Like they got… got struck by lightning, or hit by a car, or- or-” She trailed off, hitting him with a Look.

Great. He knew what that was about. He’d read her file during his lunch break.

This was about her dad. Had to be.

"He’s not here."

She blinked.

"Souls don’t linger in Limbo for eighteen years."

"But-"

"They can’t." He tried to make his voice firm, but gentle. "They really _can’t_. If you stay here for more than a week you just… fade away. Not in the fun way, like I’ve been doing. I mean just gone. For good.”

"Where’d he go, then? Do you know?"

"No."

"Can you find out?"

"No."

"You’re lying."

"I’m not."

"I know you can find out. You know all this stuff about me."

He sighed. “It doesn’t work that way.”

She was stubborn, though, and wouldn’t listen. She snapped at him before stalking away, “Fine. Leave me alone.”

"Think of your mum!" he shouted after her. "Think of the stray cat!"

 

* * *

 

He let her stew away for a day or so before confronting her again. Time was starting to run out.

"Listen," he said, fading into view beside her, already sitting on the rock with his legs stretched out. They were way longer than hers, and the tip of his chucks were scuffed. She blinked, but didn’t jump or react in any other way. She was good. Fast learner.

"Listen," he said again, "You gotta go back."

Her shoulders slumped. “I know.”

"Oh.That was easier than I thought. What’s changed your mind?"

She shrugged. “Just thought about what you said. You’re right. My mum’ll be upset if I don’t go back. She’s all by herself. Can’t do that to her.”

"Yeah."

"And Mickey, too. Though knowing him he’ll be dating Trish Delany by now." She sneered. "He better think twice if he wants to get back together after that."

"Yeah."

"You’re just saying yes to everything I say, aren’t you?"

"Yeah."

A moment of silence descended. He contemplated the mist, telling himself he wouldn’t rush her.

"D’you think he’s in Heaven?"

And there it was.

"Yes," he said. "I think so."

"You just sayin’ that so I’ll go?"

"No," he said, evenly, betraying nothing. "It is my opinion that your father, Pete Tyler, born on the fifteenth of September nineteen-fifty-four, died on the seventh of November nineteen-eighty-seven, was a good man, with many good ideas and who was ahead of his time. He was taken away from you tragically early, but would surely be in Heaven right now, wishing you’d get off your bum and go back to the business of living."

She looked at him, straightening slowly. “You checked?”

"I did not."

Her eyes lit up. “You checked!”

"No, I didn’t, I said, ‘in my opinion’, this is entirely a subjective statement, completely manufactured by me-"

"Thank you!" And she threw her arms around him, taking him by surprise.

As soon as she touched him he thought, _big mistake._ The world became a blender, whirling about him, images and sensations and sounds pelted him in every direction: Rose Tyler in a pink dress, waving at him, Rose Tyler holding his hand under a street lamp, waiting for a taxi, Rose Tyler holding a baby in both arms, smiling up at him, Rose Tyler standing in the doorway of a house with a blue door and a painted fence… he braced himself against the onslaught but knew he was lost.

Could’ve beens. Should’ves. Long gone. Missed the boat.

_One soul,_ came the whisper on the mist. _Twenty years too late._

He looked up at the mist and mouthed something rude. The mist swirled serenely and part of it solidified, became the image of a hand, making an equally rude gesture back at him. 

"Right," he said, peeling her arms gently away. "Off you pop, then."

"Can I at least see your face? Before I go?"

He obliged. Why not?

"Oh." She smiled.

"What?"

"You’re fit."

So Reapers were capable of blushing, too. He didn’t know he even _had_ blood. He coughed, slightly embarrassed, and she grinned, making him feel a little twinge of loss, deep in his deathly gut.

Oh, well. He liked being a Reaper, after all.

"Time to say goodbye, I s’pose."

"Yep."

"Thanks."

"Anytime. See you in eighty years." He gave her a salute.

"Blimey," she said, her voice starting to fade. "I’m going to live that long?"

"I’m going to make sure of it," he said, to the emptiness where she had been. "I’ll get you a good benefits package, too, and a three hour lunch. When you get back. If you want."

Whistling, he shoved his hands into his pockets and sauntered down the path back to the office.

Still no idea about the mannequins, though.

Some things would always remain a mystery, he supposed.


	14. The One With All The Hormones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #23 - Meeting On A Train Ride AU
> 
> (This is the third part to the first two prompts/chapters, continuing from where The One Where Rose is Pregnant/The One With Zorro left off. You probably need to read those before you read this, if you haven't already.)

“Have you _lost your mind_?” he demanded, as soon as she stepped off the train, even as his heart lurched at the sight of her.

Immediately he regretted his choice of first words.

Rose’s expression went stiff - as did her shoulders - and she said, coolly, “Hello to you, too.”

He hadn’t been able to breathe, not properly, until now. Not since he’d come back to his cousin’s house several hours ago and found he had twenty missed calls from Rose on his mobile. When the call finally connected, her fuzzy voice had told him over the line that she was arriving in Edinburgh on the next train, and would he come to meet her at the station?

He’d been absolutely livid.

Now, relief coursed through him, but so still did anger. “I can’t believe you took a five hour train to Scotland _by yourself_! Rose, what were you thinking? What if something happened?”

“I’m pregnant,” she retorted, glaring back at him, “Not useless.”

“It’s dangerous in your condition!”

“Stop shouting.”

“I’m not shouting.”

“Like hell you aren’t!”

Donna, who was standing behind him, stepped forward to break the tension.

“Hi, Rose? I’m Donna. Nice to meet you. Why don’t we head home? You must be tired.” She threw him a meaningful look. “Come on. Fight in the car, if you must.”

Rose shook Donna’s hand and allowed herself to be led to the car park just outside. Silently he followed, holding his tongue until they were on the road again.

“I’m just - _upset_ \- that you had so little regard for your own safety-”

“Oh, give us a break!” she snapped, scowling. “I’m perfectly fine! It might be dangerous for pregnant women to fly but it’s perfectly safe to take a train, you nutter. In fact, it’s very comfortable. I even rang my doctor’s office and asked, they said loads of women do it and even enjoy it cos’ the rhythmic motion is soothing.”

He shut his mouth, still fuming, but unable to come up with a retort. He’d also noticed the strain on Rose’s face - she had bags under her eyes, and her shoulders sagged noticeably, which meant she was exhausted despite her bluster. So he let it rest for the time being.

Even so… a small, carefully restrained part of him was secretly, wholeheartedly glad that she was here.

When they arrived at his Uncle’s empty house, Donna pulled him aside and said, “Hey. Don’t be too hard on her. She must have missed you to come all this way.”

He found that somewhat difficult to believe, even with the evidence of her presence before him. They’d not parted on… good terms. He and Rose had had a sort of row, he supposed. Well, perhaps a better description would be to call it a ‘difference of opinion and wants and needs’.

The short of it was: he wanted, she didn’t, they were going through an extremely rough patch because of it.

 

* * *

 

The incident began on a night like any other. He’d come over to keep her company. They still had their own respective flats, a source of contention between them that he had learned to carefully avoid. Rose still wasn’t wearing his ring. She’d accepted it but with a caveat: they weren’t going to just get married right away. She needed time to think about it thoroughly, and in the meanwhile they could try being in a relationship for a bit. To see if they fit together.

_We fit together just fine_ , he’d wanted to say. _I remember exactly how well you fit._

She’d gone to take a shower and had forgot her robe, so he’d fetched it, getting an eyeful of soft, creamy skin. He’d tried not to stare but it hadn’t been easy.That had been awkward but innocent enough, and he’d followed her back to her bedroom to help her get ready for bed.

She’d sighed, hands resting on her belly, on the baby, as he carefully ran his own hands through her hair, running a hot stream of air over the soft, silk strands.

"Feels really nice," Rose had murmured, a little smile of content on her upturned face. It would take so little effort to bend and touch his lips to hers. He could gently ease her back onto the bed, kissing her all the while, and undo that terry cloth tie again. She’d be so soft and sweet and he could see down the gap of the robe from this angle, the enticing plunge of cleavage beckoning to him-

_Stop it,_ he’d chastised himself, shaking off the fantasy with vehemence. _She’s pregnant and only just starting to accept you, don’t fuck this up._

Another flash of heat went through him, but he’d ignored it and turned off the hairdryer, forcing a cheerful tone, “All done!”

"Thanks," said Rose again, giving him another contented smile. He’d wanted to kiss her so badly. She’d waddled forward then - there wasn’t really any other word for it, and she’d probably be offended if he’d voiced the description aloud - which was really damn adorable. He bit back a grin, just as she made a face.

"Floor’s wet," she’d grumbled.

"Careful," he’d said, coming up behind her to offer support in case she slipped.

Rose had stumbled back, then, colliding directly with him. Like an untried schoolboy, the feeling of her generous and pert bottom pressing against the front of his trousers had made him react in a very, very, typical manner. He’d been riding high on the tension for weeks now, nearly fit to burst, thinking about that one night over and over and berating himself.

Gasping at the contact - of course she’d felt his reaction - Rose had jerked away from him as though he were suddenly made of hot lava. She’d stumbled again, overbalancing as she was prone to do these days. He’d steadied her with an arm around her waist, turning her towards him, belly to belly, only to find that her robe had come loose again.

He was a bloke, so - of course he’d looked. _Of course he had._

She’d noticed that, too, and went red as she shoved at his chest, pushing him away. He couldn’t bear to remember the appalled look on her face. Nor could he forget the stilted horror in her voice as she’d accused, wide-eyed, “But you helped me in the bath- all those times- were you always-“

He’d stammered, searching for excuses without success - and was saved by the harsh, distracting buzz of his mobile.

 

* * *

 

Uncle Wilf’s pending heart surgery had been the bad news. He’d been summoned to Scotland. Of course there’d was no question of Rose joining him in her condition.

Before he’d gone to bed that same horrible night, he’d sent her a text, telling her he’d be back as soon as he could, and that he’d call her when he arrived in Edinburgh to check on her and the baby.

Her reply had been a short and succinct ‘OK’, leaving him in no doubt of her disgust with him.

And yet, here she was. Had she missed him? Enough to travel to Scotland on her own?

He didn’t know what to think.

 

* * *

 

Finally, when she had been fed and pampered and tucked into bed by his cousin, he broached the subject.

"Look," he said, deciding an apology was the best way forward, "I’m sorry about what happened."

"Are you?" she asked.

"It was my fault. It’s been a while since… well, you know."

He shrugged, trying to play it casual. No need to let her know he was in constant turmoil over the slow progress of their relationship. He’d come to understand one thing: he had to avoid coming on too strong. He didn’t want to scare her off - she was skittish, understandably so. If he wanted to win her over, he had to do it slowly, carefully.

"I’m sorry if it made you uncomfortable. It won’t happen again."

He’d keep his distance and make sure of it. At the very least, he’d hide it to the best of his ability.

A weird look fluttered over her face, one that confused him. She was silent, lying propped up against the pillows of the bed in the guest room, in _his_ guest bed. There was room for two in it - a tight squeeze, perhaps - but he had already resigned himself to sleeping on the floor. It wasn’t as though he’d expected to get any proper rest on this trip, anyway, what was another night of bad sleep?

Carefully, gauging her reaction, he asked, “Is that okay? Are we- okay?”

She said, slowly, “Yeah. Yeah, we are.”

"Good. You ready to tell me why now?"

“Why what?”

“Why you came here.” She didn’t respond. “Well?”

Rose looked down at the quilt, fingers tugging at the stitching on the hem. “Dunno.”

“Rose. Come on.”

“I dunno,” she repeated stubbornly.

He sighed. “Okay. That’s fine. You’re tired. We’ll discuss it in the morning.”

"Fine."

He grabbed an extra quilt from the closet, tossed it on the floor, and trod over to the light switch by the door. A flick of his hand plunged the room into darkness. Blindly returning to the spot in the corner, he lay down on the lumpy quilt and wished he’d thought to find an extra pillow.

“You’re sleeping on the floor?”

Her voice came from the bed, muffled.

"Where else would I sleep?"

There was a pause. “But it’s cold. There’s a draft. I felt it.”

"I’ll manage."

"You’ll get a crick in your neck, lying on the floor."

"I won’t."

"Your back’s gonna hurt in the morning."

"It’s _fine_.”

He heard rustling, the sound of the covers being pulled away, and then the soft thump of feet hitting the ground. Sitting up, he asked, “Why are you getting out of bed?”

The sounds of movement stopped. “I think you shouldn’t sleep on the floor.”

"Rose, stop worrying about me and just go to sleep."

Even in the dark, he could sense her deliberation, knew she was sitting there chewing her lip - her mind working on the best way to drive him crazy. She was getting damn good at it lately. Even now he was acutely aware of her presence just a mere three feet away from him - the faint scent of her perfume, the cadence of her breathing audible in the dark silence of the room.

"You should come over here and sleep in the bed," she said at last.

"You’re sleeping in the bed," he replied, shoving his hand into his hair in frustration. "Rose, seriously-"

"With me," she clarified, stunning him. "We can share."

What?

His breath caught in his throat. “You want to sleep in the same bed?”

"Yeah. S’not fair, to you. This is your guest bed. I’m stealing it."

"It’s fine, Rose."

"No, it’s not."

"There isn’t enough room."

"There is. We can fit. You just have to… spoon me."

"Spoon you," he repeated, faintly. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. "You want me to… spoon you."

There was a note of determination in her voice. “Yes.”

"That’s a terrible idea." The words came out before he could think them through properly.

"Oh."

Fuck. She sounded hurt.

"I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant… well, you know why. It’s… difficult for me. I won’t be able to control myself… in that situation. Being that close to you." _Because of how I feel about you. Because you’re carrying my baby. Because there’s nothing I want more._

He heard her shift again, on the bed.

"S’okay," she said, in such a small voice he almost didn’t hear her.

"What?"

"I don’t mind." She spoke louder. "If it happens, I mean. I’m okay."

Frustration made him curt. “That’s nice, but I’m not. I won’t be okay.” He’d be miserable. What was she thinking? “I’ll pass. Thanks.”

She gave up after that and retreated into silence, until at last they both managed to fall into an uneasy, tension-filled sleep.

 

* * *

 

Rose spent the week mainly in Donna’s company, joining them on several visits to the hospital to meet Uncle Wilf post-op. The sight of her rounded stomach had cheered the poor fellow immensely and he’d gone so far as to tell her she was speeding up his recovery just by being there.

Now they sat in a compartment together, watching the scenery roll by as the train sped from Edinburgh back to London.

He was tired of the tension, and tired of not speaking. It was also obvious to him that she was uncomfortable. Her ankles were probably sore - they hadn’t been massaged in over a week. That used to be his job. He looked forward to it. He missed it. Missed touching her, missed spending time with her.

It was his own fault, for letting his randy inclinations destroy what closeness they’d managed to cultivate.

"You okay?" he asked, when she shifted in her seat across from him for the hundredth time, trying to find a comfortable position.

"I’m sore," she admitted, wincing. "I’m getting a cramp in my leg, I think."

"Here," he said, reaching down to lift her limb into his lap - she reacted with startlement, pulling away from his grasp.

He felt his stomach turn to lead.

"I’m only going to massage your leg," he said dully, pushing the heart-break away for later. Now he couldn’t even touch her without making her feel like he was a lecher, out to cop any cheap feel. "Just your leg."

She blushed, hotly, inexplicably. “Okay.”

Gingerly, he pulled her foot onto his knee, making sure there was only the minimum of physical contact necessary. Her muscles were so tight he wasn’t surprised she was in pain. The fact that she’d not complained until now made his jaw clench - he could have helped earlier, made it better before it got this bad.

The guilt and anxiety and irritation of the past week and a half built to a head inside his chest and it wouldn’t stay down. He felt like bursting. Something had to give, so he let the words come out of his mouth without filtering them as he usually would.

"I know it makes you uncomfortable, and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that. It’s just- you’re- you." He focused on her calf as he spoke, massaging it thoroughly. It was easier than looking at her face and seeing the rejection there. "I fancy you and you’re carrying my unborn child and I only got to see you naked that _one_ night, so forgive me if I react like a randy twelve-year-old at the sight of your breasts!”

Rose’s mouth fell open.

"Sorry."

_Fuck._ Why had he said all that? Terror and panic filled him as he let go of her, cursing himself - he was an idiot, _the world’s biggest idiot, bloody fucking hell_ -

"No," she said, faintly, reaching out to touch his hand, stopping him. "Don’t apologize."

He met her gaze, heart lurching.

"Is that true?"

"What?" he asked.

She just looked at him, with those big clear eyes of hers, that way she always did, trying to look past his skin into his soul. She was always trying to dig deeper, trying to find something he’d been offering to her since day one. It wasn’t hidden. His heart was on his sleeve - she just never thought to look there.

"You- you still fancy me?"

"I always have. Always." He searched her face, willing her to understand. "Why is that so hard for you to believe?"

"I do believe you. No, really, I do… why do you think I came?" She cleared her throat, as a hint of pink tinged her cheeks. A ridiculous hope burgeoned in his chest. "Chased you all the way to Scotland?"

"Why did you?"

"Because! We had a- a misunderstanding, and you just _ran off_.”

"I was going to come back!"

"I know. _Still._ You can’t just disappear and expect me to sit at home waiting for you! What happens when we have a row after the baby’s born? One of us just walks out?” Her lip trembled. “I- I don’t want that to happen. I don’t want to watch you walk away.”

"I would never walk out on you, or our baby," he said, stunned.

He lowered her leg to the ground and slid into the seat beside her, cupping her face with both hands. Her cheeks were satiny soft under his palms, the curve of each vulnerable and sweet at the same time. “Rose. Believe me. I’m never going away.”

Her chin dipped, the barest of nods. “Just get scared, sometimes. Everything happened so fast. I still can’t wrap my head around it, that I’m really pregnant. Sometimes it feels like a dream, y’know? Like I’m going to wake up any minute and none of this is real… and you’re not… with me anymore.”

"That’s never going to happen. You’re never getting rid of me. I’m like gum on the bottom of your shoe. Stuck to you forever."

That got him a little smile. “You sure about that? I’m the one who had to come all the way to Scotland and after all that you slept on the floor and a couch for a week.”

The teasing note in her voice made his heart skip a beat. He looked at her, curiously. “You said we had a misunderstanding. What did you mean?”

She ducked her head, seeming to suddenly go shy. “Dunno… just…”

He let go of her face to take her hand, letting his fingers intertwine with hers, perched lightly on her abdomen. The vibration of the train hummed in his ears, a loud background noise that very nearly drowned out her next reply.

"Just… didn’t want you to think I don’t want you. Like that. Cos’ I do."

"What?"

She was definitely coming over shy, but she met his gaze without hesitation and said, “I’m pregnant. My hormones are crazy. And you’re fit. And you’re always touching me, s’not strange, really, is it-“

"Seriously?"

Another nod. His mouth went dry.

"Yeah. If you still want me."

"I most certainly do!"

"Yeah? Even though… I’m…" her voice trailed off, and he felt her hand tighten over his, over her protruding stomach. "I’m so… pregnant?"

"Does it matter?" he asked, seriously. "It doesn’t bother me. At all. But if it bothers you, I won’t-"

"You actually want to, though?" She seemed to be having difficulty understanding the concept. "You really, really want to?"

"Absolutely," he said, shifting his head, bending it towards her, towards the warm heat of her mouth. He pressed his lips to hers, and groaned as she instantly reciprocated, moving against him, opening to let his tongue sweep inside to taste her.

Her eyes were heavy-lidded when he pulled back, nipping at her lower lip. He felt like shouting to the heavens: _Rose Tyler kissed me! Rose Tyler wants me!_

"You really do," she said, with wonder.

"I really, really, really do," he agreed.

"That’s good," she said. The train hit a curve and jostled them together, pressing parts of her against him that had him groaning. Her eyes darted up to his, wide, a hot blush spreading over her cheeks. "Oh!"

"Can’t help it," he said, wrapping his arms around her, keeping her close. "Can’t we?"

"What?" she squeaked, "Here?"

"There’s the floor."

She looked scandalised. “Are you mad? We can’t do this on the floor of a train! I’m pregnant!”

"I meant for me," he said.

"Eh?"

He slid to his knees.

That was his problem: he was always pushing his luck. But sometimes luck was on his side.

Or maybe it was just pregnancy hormones.


	15. The One With The Autograph

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #33 - Celeb/Fan AU… part two of the Traffic Warden AU! (In case you're wondering, that's chapter 6.)

Donna was talking his ear off as she followed him out of the office, somehow having a conversation on her mobile at the same time. As a result she was distracted when he surreptitiously crept around the front of the car, eyes scanning the windshield for the familiar little slip of yellow he was used to seeing.

Nothing there. He frowned.

There was nothing there the following day, either. Nor the day after that.

 

* * *

 

"Will you stop pouting? You’re ruining the atmosphere."

"I’m not pouting."

"Drink your coffee and look intelligent and writerly. That’s your job."

"It’s so boring, though."

"Too bad. Part of the deal. Think about the opening for your next chapter if you’re bored. Just smile every now and then so they think you’re listening."

He shifted in his seat, rummaged in his pocket blindly, groping for something. “I left my mobile in the car. I should go get it-“

"Like hell you are. What do you need your mobile for? In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re in a meeting."

"I think I parked on a vertical stripe, though," he said, trying another tactic. "That’s an instant parking fine."

"We have private parking."

"Oh. Are you sure?"

"Yes!" Donna hissed. "Be quiet!"

 

* * *

 

He was staggered by it.

He had never, ever, not even once, had writer’s block. Not for a single moment, in the ten years he’d spent as a novelist. It just didn’t happen to him. Fellow writers and friends had complained of the ailment and he had listened in sympathy, offering words of encouragement while secretly thinking they were all being overly dramatic - but now he knew. It was _real._

He thought perhaps he should go for a drive, just around the neighbourhood, maybe downtown to the general vicinity of his publisher’s office, and pick up an espresso or two. Yes. That was a splendid idea. Maybe taking a break from staring at his screen would help.

He got his coffee, sat down, lingered over a magazine, and finally strolled back to where he’d parked his car. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted a flash of neon green rounding the sidewalk - his heart did a little leap, but it sank again, taking in the tanned skin, the short-cropped black hair, and the altogether look of boredom in the warden’s unfamiliar eyes.

"I’m moving my car," he said, as the bloke drew close, "See? Well within the hour limit. No need to get your pad out. You’re new here, aren’t you? Never seen you before. Is that- is that a permanent thing, then? Is this going to be your ‘beat’, so to speak? Or is it just a temporary shift, perhaps? Are you just filling in for the week, or-"

The warden blinked at him. Not much of a talker, that one.

 

* * *

 

It was a good thing, wasn’t it? He was saving a lot of money. He could buy a lot of coffee with all that money he was saving. His bank account was rejoicing.

With that comforting thought, he went back to work.

He wrote a grand total of forty-seven words that afternoon. Three sentences. Well, two and a half. Two and a sentence fragment. With a dangling participle. Donna was going to give him hell for it.

 

* * *

 

  
"How’s the book going?"

"Great," he lied.

 

* * *

 

"Thanks for coming out," he said, signing with a flourish.

May, who was seventy-four and had five grandchildren, beamed back at him and clutched his latest novel to her floral-blouse clad chest. “Thank you, dear. I’m looking forward to the next in your series! And may I just say, the photo of you on the dust jacket doesn’t do you justice. You’re a looker!”

Donna snorted, which was just _rude_ , considering she was his publicist and ought to be encouraging that sort of praise. He ignored her and thanked May again before she tottered off to her husband, who was seventy-eight and was patiently waiting by the Real Crime section.

The line was dwindling inside the little bookshop, one of the last legs on his signing tour. It was all very grand and distracting and he’d been very glad to start going on it, aside from the questions about his next book that made him feel guilty.

(He was still blocked. It was a secret.)

One of the shop’s staff sidled up to the table and said, “There’s still a few stragglers, they just showed up at the door. Should we let them join the line?”

He was tired, a part of him wanted to say no, but Donna was looking fierce and it was also against his nature to turn down fans. “Yeah- yeah, let them in, I’ll stay an extra half hour or so.”

"Brilliant! Thanks!"

A flash of blonde at the end of the queue caught his eye, but he forced himself to focus on the person before him and had a stilted conversation about his protagonist with them. The pen he was using ran out of ink and he groped about his bag for a fresh one as the next fan came up to the table. She slid a copy of his first book across the table, which was unusual, most of the readers present were getting the latest one in the series signed-

"New reader?" he asked, looking up.

"S’pose you could say so," she said. “Discovered you recently. I’m addicted.”

He sat up straight, mouth falling open. “Hi.”

Her lips twitched. “Hello.”

"Long time no see," he said.

"Been busy. Gone back to school. Finished paying off my debt."

"Oh," he said, blinking rapidly, his brain still trying to recover from the shock. His hands shook a little as he fumbled with the cap of his new pen. "…I see."

"Yep."

"Who should I make it out to?" he asked, trying to keep his hand steady.

"Rose," she said, her mouth lifting at the corner. "Rose Tyler."

Carefully scrawling his name across the front page, he made sure to angle the book so no one could see what he was writing, especially not Donna.

"Thanks." She accepted the book back from him. Her eyes flickered over the page. A smile crept over her face. She closed it and wandered off into the back of the shop. Over her shoulder, she said, “See you later.”

 

* * *

 

_To Rose Tyler—_

_(020) 73x-674_

_Non-Fiction, 7PM, coffee?_


	16. The One With The Sofa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set in the same universe as The One With The Handcuffs, but works as a standalone, you don’t particularly need to have read the other prompt before you read this one.
> 
> The final prompt. Thank you for reading and commenting and leaving kudos. You're all fantastic!

It was odd sleeping on someone else’s sofa.

But it was warm, much warmer than in her own flat, which was currently uninhabitably cold due to the lack of proper heating. The super was ‘looking into the situation’.

Rose shifted under her mass of blankets, unable to sleep. As far as sofas went, Detective Inspector John Smith’s was fairly comfortable. Yet she found herself tossing and turning for ages, listening to the rattling and groaning of the old radiator in the corner and staring at the ceiling in the dark.

She resembled a panda in the morning, despite her efforts with concealer in his tiny bathroom. The D.I. gave her measuring look over his breakfast as he asked, “Sleep well?”

"Yes, thanks," she lied, trying to sound chipper.

That evening he called her and said he’d be home very late, perhaps not at all, and she might as well take the bedroom for the night.

 

* * *

 

True to his word, he didn’t come home. In fact, Rose didn’t see the D.I. until the weekend - he’d been working non-stop on a case for nearly three whole days. She woke up and found him snoring on the sofa, looking terribly exhausted.

"When did you get in?" she asked apprehensively, looking at his wrinkled shirt and tousled hair. His jacket was slung carelessly over the back of the sofa and his tie dangled from a tilting lampshade.

"Late," he replied, rubbing at an imprint of the sofa cusion on his cheek - guilt flashed through her.

"Why didn’t you wake me?"

"What for?"

"To switch."

He looked at her bemusedly, but didn’t answer. Instead he got up and went into the bathroom, where he spent an inordinate amount of time taking a shower.

Rose made breakfast while he was gone. She also answered the door, signed for three parcels, and folded the blankets on the sofa.

"Thanks," he said, emerging freshly shaven and smelling of soap. His hair was wet. She bit her lip, taking in his shirt and trousers and jacket.

"Are you going back to work?"

"No," he said, eyeing the table hungrily. He sounded grumpy. "Miraculously, I have the day off. We closed our case last night. You?"

"My shift starts in an hour," said Rose, watching as he sat down and devoured two slices of toast before she could even finish pouring a glass of orange juice for herself. "Might go down and complain again to the Super in a bit, doubt it’ll do any good though."

"Well, you can stay as long as you like," he said, through a mouthful. "I don’t mind. I’m barely around anyway, as you well know."

"Sorry," she said, feeling a flash of guilt again. "I’ll sleep on the sofa tonight."

"Absolutely not," he replied, "You’re the guest. You get the bed. S’only proper."

"You’re joking, right?"

"Not even a little bit. Frankly, I like the idea of you sleeping in my bed," he added, casually.

A pin drop could’ve been heard in the silence that followed. Rose was speechless.

The D.I. laughed and looked up from his toast, eyes twinkling with mirth- “Look at your face!”

"Very funny," she said, face going beet red.

He speared some egg on a fork tip and grinned, his mood completely revitalized. Teasing her seemed to be a favourite past-time for him.

 

* * *

 

"It’s definitely warmer in the bedroom," Rose said fretfully that evening, putting her hand on the radiator. It was barely warm.

"You’re imagining it," he replied, from a nest of blankets on the sofa. His eyes remained glued to the telly.

"I am not!"

"Shh. They’re about to apprehend the killer. See, I told you it was the brother. Copper’s hunch."

"I can’t believe you watch crime procedurals," she commented with amusement, momentarily distracted from her concern. 

"Trust me. It’s nothing like the reality. I’m fascinated by what the general populace thinks being a cop is like."

Rose laughed, and joined him on the sofa, making plans to take control of the sofa by the time the programme was over. Things did not go exactly as she’d hoped.

 

* * *

 

"Hey," she whispered, hours later, bending over his prone form.

The D.I. opened his eyes and jerked with a start. “Christ!”

"Sorry," she whispered again, backing up an inch.

"Don’t stand over me in the dark!" He stared at her, pulling the covers up over his exposed neck and shoulders. His teeth clattered. It was _freezing_ in the living room. She could see the gooseflesh on the side of his neck. “What is it?”

"It’s cold."

"What? Even in there? You’ve got like five quilts and the space heater on."

"No, I mean- here. You’re shivering."

"I’m fine," he said.

"You don’t even fit all the way," she protested. "You take the bed. It’s your bed."

There was a pause. Then, coolly, he announced, “I’m not wearing any clothes under this blanket, Tyler.”

"What?" she squeaked.

"I’m starkers, and-"

"Well, no wonder you’re cold-"

"-And I swear to God, if you don’t go back to bed right this instant I’m going to stand up-"

She shoved a pillow into his face and fled, too embarrassed to call his bluff - he started laughing again, and she heard him mutter “You’re such a prude,” which had her rounding back again.

But then his voice went deep and authoritative, and she stopped in her tracks. He was using his copper’s voice, damn it, and there was real irritation in it this time- “Rose. Tyler. _Go. To. Sleep._ ”

 

* * *

 

She didn’t give up easily.

"I told you," he said the following night, lifting her from the sofa with a grunt - "I like you sleeping in my bed."

He carried her unsteadily - she wasn’t light - to the bedroom and set her down on the bed. He threw the comforters over her, tucking the edge of the top one between the mattress and the box spring.

"I’m going back to my sofa," he said firmly. "Where I will sleep, for the next six hours, undisturbed by you, because _you_ will be sleeping in _here_. We clear?”

"But-"

"No buts. _Goodnight_.”

 

* * *

 

He got home late again, so Rose took advantage.

She woke to the sound of the key being turned in the lock, and the sound of the D.I. shuffling into the flat, his footsteps heavy and tired. The light of the lamp by the entryway came on, suffusing the room with a soft glow-

He sighed. “Stubborn as a mule.” A hand fell onto her shoulder and shook. “Oi. Shift. That’s my sofa.”

"M’sleepin."

"Go sleep in the bed."

She shook her head and dug deeper into the sofa cushion, gripping her quilts even more tightly.

"It’s two in the morning," he said, exasperatedly. "Are we seriously doing this _now_?”

She didn’t answer.

"Rose, I’m counting to five. One." He prodded her in shoulder, through the covers. "I’m warning you. Two." Another poke. "Seriously. Three."

She wasn’t going to make it easy for him - last time he’d taken her by surprise, this time she would cling to the sofa for dear life, he’d not budge her an inch, no way in hell-

"This is ridiculous. Four. Final warning. Four-and-a-half. Alright. Fine. _Five_.”

He grabbed a wad of the blankets in both hands and yanked, hard, lifting them straight off Rose - with so much force that she rolled, slightly, ending up on her back, staring up at the D.I. in her goofiest pajamas, the rush of cold air hitting her like a pail of freezing water-

He dropped the quilts and shrugged out of his jacket. Toed his shoes off. Untucked his shirt. Tugged at the knot of his tie, loosening it, pulling it over his head and tossing it somewhere over his shoulder.

"W-what are you doing?" Rose asked, mouth going dry.

"Getting ready for bed." He replied, undoing the buttons at his cuffs and rolling up his sleeves. "Shift over."

"Eh?"

Before she could question him further, he’d already sank down onto the sofa, stretching out and crowding her into the back of it. His long body pressed against hers, forcing her onto her side to make room for him.

"Lift your head," he said, sliding his arm under her nerveless neck, providing a surprisingly comfortable rest for it. The piles of blankets were seized from the ground with his free hand and tossed back over them both. He wrapped his arm around her waist, securing her snugly to him.

The shock of finding herself suddenly lying ensconced in his arms left Rose quite unable to speak. A shiver went through her. Every point of contact along their bodies felt like heat, glorious, lovely, _spine-tingling_ heat-

"Alright?" He asked, peering down at her.

She struggled to reply, and only managed a shy, “Y-yeah.”

"Good. Don’t you dare wriggle, or we’ll both fall off this bloody sofa," he said warningly, before closing his eyes. "Now go to sleep. I’m knackered."

Minutes ticked by, quiet save for the sound of breathing and his steady heartbeat, a contrast to the way Rose’s was racing in her chest. She inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly, and allowed herself to relax into his hold. Her fingers uncurled from the rigid fists they had formed against her stomach and she let one hand slide carefully out between their ribs to rest on his side, just above his hipbone.

More silence. And then, “John?”

His breath ruffled the hairs at the top of her head, a curious, tickly sensation. “Yeah?”

"Tomorrow," she began.

"What about tomorrow?"

She tucked her chin into his shoulder, the words emerging muffled. “Tomorrow, let’s sleep in the bed.”

"Good idea," he replied, with a yawn.

Several heartbeats later, they were both fast asleep.


End file.
